A Better Fate
by ColdHandsLuke
Summary: Jon Snow is spurred in a different direction, and this has lasting effects on the Starks and the North. *Story begins two years before AGOT.*
1. Jon - A Beginning

"Keep your footing, Jon! Trail your right boot farther behind, whether you are rushed by shield or sword."

"Aye, Ser Rodrik," Jon replied.

Robb offered him a hand and helped him to his feet. Jon had kept his wooden sword in hand when his brother charged, but his shield lay in the dirt a few paces away. Jon bent and straightened his elbow, testing for stiffness. Though Jon Snow was slightly taller than his brother, he could not match Robb's strength. The elder of the two had begun to fill out his frame, while Jon remained as lean as any boy of two-and-ten.

The training yard of Winterfell smelled of grass and leather armor. Jon breathed deeply and took a moment to let his eyes scan his castle home. Ser Rodrik Cassel bent to pick up the tattered, old shield and Jon glimpsed a shadow in the distance, over the whiskered knight's shoulder. In the not quite waning daylight, the shadow strode down the slight grass hill towards the dirt of the training yard. Jon tapped Robb with his sword, then pointed at the figure. Robb nodded in silent agreement and a moment later the boys sprinted to the fence. Jon climbed over while Robb dove between the boards. They charged the dark figure with their swords extended like lances.

The shadow grinned and sidestepped their clumsy attack. Jon danced from one foot to the other in front of the man. Robb circled round and smacked the shadow on his arse.

"Now you're mine!" hollered the shrouded man. In one deft motion, he grabbed Robb by the collar and then hoisted the lad over his shoulder. Jon turned to run, but fared no better.

With a boy on each shoulder, the man shouted to Ser Rodrik, "Brave knight, I've caught two wild beasts! Mayhaps, we could put them on a spit and roast them for supper!"

"I'll spark a fire, if you clean and dress the meat, Benjen."

Jon and his brother laughed as their uncle tossed them both to the grass.

"You're back, is their trouble at the Wall?"

"Do you need our help throwing back wildling clans?"

Benjen Stark laughed at their jest. "Horses and steel from _Lord Stark_, is all. But should the Night's Watch have need of your swords, I'll ride here in all haste."

The boys lost all capacity for attention with their uncle within the castle walls. Ser Rodrik told them that if they returned their wooden arms and padded armor to the armory, they would be free from their training for the balance of the afternoon.

Benjen Stark seldom visited his childhood home. As First Ranger, he spent more time riding out beyond the Wall, than south of it. His face held the solemn features typical to his house, but his nephews saw him wear a grin more often than not.

Robb and Jon assailed Benjen with questions of his adventures in the Haunted Forest and beyond. They followed him to the Great Hall and played at fighting out his stories of shadow cats and Mance Rayder's wildlings.

The rest of the household joined them for a dinner of lighthearted stories and jests. To each tale: the two eldest brothers boasted of what they would have done in the frozen wilderness, their eldest sister thanked her uncle, and little Arya and Bran sat wide-eyed and unable to discern between truth and Benjen's teasing.

"I could be a man of the Night's Watch."

At Robb's words, a hush fell upon the family's table.

"I really could, uncle. I'd wear black mail and leather and chase wildlings up into the Lands of Always Winter. Then they would tell _their_ nephews of the ferocious Robb Stark and never be seen on our lands again."

As Robb tried to sound like a man grown, he could not have sounded more of a boy.

Lady Catelyn Stark shifted in agitation. She gave her husband a worried look.

Lord Eddard was about to speak when his brother began instead, "The Watch is no place for boys, no matter how eager or brave. Your place is here, in Winterfell." Benjen lightened his expression and said, "Have I ever told you, yet, how best to tell a snowbear from a bear covered in snow? When you see one, climb a tree. If the bear climbs up after you and eats you, it is just a common bear. If it knocks the tree over, _then_ eats you –that's a snowbear for true."

Later, Jon and Robb sought out their uncle before going to bed. They looked for him in the Great Hall, then their sisters' chambers. When they felt certain that he was in their father's solar, they crept up the stairs and through the halls, preparing to ambush him.

They heard the shouting well before they reached the room. Jon wanted to turn back, but Robb grabbed his sleeve and continued on. One of the raised voices was clearly Lady Stark's; not until they reached the closed door did they realize that the man's voice belonged to their uncle rather than their father.

". . . no place for a green boy! I'll not see my fate visited upon my nephew."

"Benjen, this is not your decision," said the woman. "He is not your son."

Robb and Jon turned to each other. Robb mouthed, "They…are…talking…about…me."

Jon wondered if Benjen had thought Robb serious about wanting to join the Night's Watch. He should know his kin well enough to see the jape in the boy's words, Jon thought. Furthermore, Benjen seemed to be arguing against it. _Why would Robb's mother want him to take the Black?_

"My lady, he's not your son either."

And instantly, Jon understood.

"What other choice have we? Is my husband's bastard going to grow into a greybeard within these halls? Perhaps he could sire some whelps of his own. We could have more little _Snows_ sulking about the castle. Or mayhaps he has the grace to marry his wench. The gets could take one of those comical House names, the Northmen's version of 'Longwaters' or 'Riverswyft'; as if the realm forgets that such are still the unwelcome gets of an unwanted son.

"I've had enough, Ned! Two-and-ten years he has shared a home –even shared a bedroom for much of that time– with my children, _your_ children,_my lord_. He must be sent away! The Wall, the deserts beyond Pentos, any of the Seven Hells, just somewhere!"

"Ned, brother, how can you listen to this? Why are you mute when it needs be you to stand for the boy?"

"Enough!" Jon heard a chair topple over and his father's voice first enter the row. "My lady, I must have words with my brother," Eddard growled. "We shall speak later -you and I."

The sound of footsteps approaching stirred Jon from his frozen position. He and Robb ran as fast and as quietly as they could. Lady Stark would not look kindly on finding Jon, especially.

The boys barreled into Robb's room, breathless and stunned. Robb's mother hadn't yelled at them and thus they assumed their escape successful.

"But . . . she can't . . . send you away!" The ferocity of Robb tone was at odds with the whisper-soft volume of his voice. "Father will listen to Uncle Ben . . . won't he?"

"Robb, I don't know," Jon shook his head. The heir of Winterfell's chamber was brightened only by the moonlight falling through the windows. Jon was glad for the darkness, for he did not wish his brother to see the despair in his face, nor the welling tears in his eyes.

"No matter what else happens, I will not allow it. You hear me? No matter what. I swear it by the old-"

Jon interrupted, "If father tells me to leave, what can I do but leave. . . The Wall won't be so bad. I'll have our uncle. The Starks have manned the Wall for thousands of years. It would be as if I were a part of that. There is honor being a Black Brother. . ." Jon tried to convince himself.

"Uncle's stories aren't real. He forgets that we are no longer little, that we are nearly men grown. His tales are for Bran, not us anymore. . . You cannot mean that you want to go."

Robb looked at him, but Jon could not distinguish if his face could be seen. To Jon, Robb looked truly like a shadow, save for his eyes which reflected a bare glimmer of moonlight.

"I do not know what I want. I have not the slightest idea what to do, brother. We'll speak at some later time."

Jon left the room without another word slipping from either of them. When he reached his own room, he locked his door. He quietly placed his single, wicker chair against the door as well. He climbed into his bed, pulled his linens and furs over his head and wept into his mattress.


	2. Arya - A Guest

Arya Stark sprinted from the kitchens into Winterfell's Great Hall. Compared to the bustle and warmth amongst the cooks and baking girls, the hall felt cavernous and cold. In her seven years, Arya was accustomed to her mother's scoldings, especially on more formal days. She was late without a good reason. She raised her eyes to scan the hall for her mother. _Thank the gods, I reached here first._

"Arya!"

Arya looked further down the hall to her older sister, Sansa, on the raised dais. Making an effort to present more like a lady, she tried to slow down from a sprint to a polite walk too quickly and fell to the smooth stone floor. As hard as the castle's floor was, a quick check of her knees showed Arya that at least she wouldn't have blood trailing down her legs when her lord father's bannermen arrived. Septa Mordane had told her of today's occasion almost a fortnight ago, but the girl needed less than an afternoon to forget who would be riding through the gates and why they were feasting today.

No one offered Arya a hand up when she rose to her feet. Her eldest brother, Robb, had once japed, "You can't expect servants to pick you up every time you fall, or else we'll see winter before we see dinner!" Arya nonetheless steadied herself and brushed the dirt from the skirts of her woolen dress. She strode past the direwolf banners, walls of soot-grey stone, and oakwood benches to her siblings. When she reached them, her younger brother, Bran, snickered. He had obviously seen her stumble; Arya wondered how many others had as well. The four Stark children, Robb, Sansa, Bran, and now Arya stood on the dais with Robb's friend Theon Greyjoy, Sansa's friend Jeyne, Jeyne's father the steward, Maester Luwin, and two of Winterfell's guards. The guards were not really there to fight anyone, Arya knew, but they did give the assembly a look of greater importance. Arya shuffled further down the high table. She hoped to avoid her sister's embarrassing chastising by leaving Bran between them, but to no avail.

"Arya, you mustn't be late like this," Sansa said, looking over Bran's head. "You knew full well when you were supposed to meet us. Septa Mordane and Mother would be cross."

_Why do I need either of them when I have you to treat me like a little baby?_

Sansa lived for days like this one. She acted like some neighboring lord was the king himself. Sansa would curtsey and refer to everyone by their proper titles. She acted like some grown-up lady, instead of the girl she really was. The heavy oak doors swung open and Sansa straightened her posture expectantly. Instead, in walked Jory and Harwin followed by Sir Rodrik and Arya's other brother, Jon. Both of the pairs went to the head of the second table. Jon smiled at her when he saw that she was standing as close to the second table as she could. She loved her brother even though he was a bastard. She couldn't stand how Sansa looked down her nose at him. Arya would sometimes yell at her when she did that or when she would call him their half-brother. Arya had seen her mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, do worse. Even as a girl of seven, she knew that adults thought ill of bastards. She wished to compel her mother to like Jon, but knew not how. Arya had never so much as talked to her mother about any such topic.

She was stirred from her thoughts by a babe's wailing.

Lady Catelyn descended the stairs carrying a red-faced Rickon. Arya couldn't stand her youngest brother when he threw his tantrums. He was pleasant enough to play with when he could crawl across the grass, but always seemed to fight when forced indoors. Arya's mother took her place to the left of head at the opposite end of the table from Arya. Catelyn lightly tossed Rickon in her arms; her howling pup was having none of it. As luck would have it, Rickon's cries were quickly drowned by the approaching rumble.

Lord Eddard Stark walked through the doorway with a stout man's arm across his shoulders. Six-and-twenty men, ladies, and children trailed them. Bran leaned toward Arya and whispered, "That's Lord Karstark next to Father and Lord Cerwyn behind them."

"No, you dolt," Arya reproached him quietly enough that only Bran could hear. "The Karstark sigil is a sun. See those antlers? Does the sun have antlers?"

She smiled at the taste of a small revenge for her little brother's earlier snickering.

The man next to her father tried to coax a laugh from Lord Eddard. He smiled at whatever jape other man had said and the well-humored man looked satisfied. Three women and most of the men turned down the aisle and walked to the second table. The lords, one lady, and the children continued to up the dais.

"Lord Hornwood, may I present Lady Catelyn Stark, my sons, Robb and Bran, and my daughters, Sansa and Arya. The others are my ward -Theon Greyjoy, Maester Luwin, Vayon Poole, and his daughter Jeyne. Lord Cerwyn, you know them all too well for another list of introductions. Please alert Lord Hornwood if you see my boys attempt to visit some mischief upon him," Ned said with a wry grin. Lord Medger Cerwyn was a frequent guest at Winterfell and gave Bran an exaggerated wink.

"Well met. My lord, let me name you my household. This precious beauty -despite her long years- is my wife, Donella." Lady Hornwood bowed to the table collectively, and then gave her husband a poke in his ribs. "This is my son and heir, Daryn. The lass next to him is my niece -Rodnel's girl, Lydrea."

They bowed and curtsied, respectively. The three lords and the two ladies took their seats at the head of the table. Lady Catelyn must have handed the baby to a handmaiden or Septa Mordane when Arya's attention was elsewhere, because she didn't see him anymore. Now that the houses had been presented, the boys slid down the table to make room for the men. Arya guessed that the three who had stood silently behind Lords Hornwood and Cerwyn were stewards or held some such post. Daryn sat across from Robb, and Bran eagerly shouldered a place for himself next to his brother. Sansa rolled her eyes at that and Jeyne giggled beside her. Arya gave Jeyne a wide birth, but was still too far from the end of the table to talk to Jon. Lydrea Hornwood glanced from Sansa and Jeyne to Arya before seating herself opposite the girls from Winterfell.

The feast began with a creamy goat's milk stew clumped with carrots and sweet corn, accompanied by the bread buns with flaking crusts that Arya had been sampling before she first arrived in the Great Hall. Arya eagerly ripped her roll in half and scooped up the stew. She had little need of spoons when the cooks baked this type of bread.

Arya was startled by a tap of someone's foot on her knee. She dropped her bread into her soup bowl and turned to Jeyne and Sansa on her left. She glared at them, but they took no notice. Engrossed in their whispers, they exchanged secrets about boys and other ladies' nonsense.

"Psst…Arya is your name, isn't it?"

Arya looked across the table at the quiet Hornwood girl.

She had long, brown hair tied back in a braid. The color would be plain, except that the girl's hair shown with strands of more than one shade. A loose wisp had escaped from her well tied braid and hung from her forehead. She pulled it away from her face and tucked it behind her ear in a practiced, unthinking motion. Arya suspected that she would see that movement half a hundred times before the meal was through. Arya met the older girl's eyes. They were a dark hazel, not quite as dark as the grey, Stark eyes that Arya had inherited from her father. The girl's nose was just a nose, straight and short enough to suit her face. Her cheeks bore none of the pink that Arya's sister was so proud of. Her jaw angled sharply to a round chin and a small, smiling mouth.

"Aye, you. Napkin your chin, you have stew all over it."

Arya wiped her entire face on her sleeve.

"Thanks," Arya said. She glanced again at Sansa to be sure that her sister had not seen her unlady-like table manners. "What is your name again? You're Lord Hornwood's daughter, right?"

"I might as well be, but no. I'm his niece, Lydrea. How old are you?"

Arya took a moment to remember before answering. She could see that Lydrea was perhaps four years older than her and did not want to say the wrong age. They talked between mouthfuls of stew, and then brazed elk, and finally pastries with pockets of sweet cream. Arya could not tell if Lydrea was only talking to her because Sansa and Jeyne were busy with their whispers or if the older girl liked her. Still, Arya wanted Lydrea Hornwood to be her friend.

After the meal, Arya raced around the table and took Lydrea by the hand. She wanted to show her Winterfell as only she knew it. _Who wouldn't like to explore the castle like that?_ Sansa, though, would have scoffed at the idea and turned her chin up from her little sister.

The modest feast had been served as soon as the guest's caravan arrived. Arya was glad for the early meal, for it left her an extra hour or two of daylight. She guided the other girl toward the steps that led to the Great Keep. The kitchens were filled with delicious smells and smiles before a meal, but dirty bowls and annoyed looks afterwards, so Arya avoided them. In her haste, she ran into Jon and would have fallen backwards, if Lydrea hadn't caught her. Jon arched an eyebrow at her, but she told him that the girls were going exploring and that she'd find him later. They ran up the stairs and out to the covered bridge, which overlooked the main courtyard.

"That's where the boys get to train with swords. After my older brothers put on their padded armor, sometimes they let me hit them with a wooden sword to see if I can hit hard enough for them to feel it."

She gave Lydrea a minute to look in both directions. From there one could see the King's Gate, the Armory and the Barracks above it, the guest quarters, and also one of the gates into the godswood. Arya recalled just how big Winterfell can feel from up high. After pointing out what each building was, she led them back into the Great Keep, through the torch lit hallway, and outside onto the high walkway to the Library Tower.

"Next is the Library Tower, with hundreds and even thousands of books and scrolls. The Maester's Tower is back above where we just came from, can you see it? I would show you, but if Maester Luwin finds us, he'll probably tell me to take you back to Mother and Sansa and Lady Hornwood. Then we'll just be stuck in a solar sipping hot-tea and curtseying at each other until I have to go to bed," Arya offered with a slight frown.

Lydrea laughed at that. "Is that what ladies do when they visit with your mother? They curtsey?" she asked with a wry grin.

Arya knew the ladies did other things too, but she was no more interested in polite gossip or sewing than she was in curtseying for hours. Arya nodded with a smile that stretched across her face.

"The way you explained how the boys practice in the yard, it sounds like you'd rather be doing that?"

"They get to do stuff that's more fun than sewing, but what I really like to do is run about as I please. I visit the armory and the stables. They have the tallest stableboy you've ever seen. He is very smiley and, no matter what you say to him, he always says, 'Hodor,'" Arya did her best to say it the same way he did. "The other stableboys are fun too. If Hullen isn't nearby, they tell me jokes I'm not supposed to hear and teach me words I'm not supposed to know. And the other places are just as good so I sneak in and out of them as often as I can. All of my father's people in the castle call me, 'Arya Underfoot'," she stated proudly. Arya was not about to mention what Jeyne Poole called her.

"This seems like a lovely castle and you make it all the more exciting with how you speak of it. I have a question, though. When we left the dining hall, you ran straight into a boy that looks just like you. And, when you talked about the practice yard, you mentioned your older _brothers_. Is he also your brother? Not Bran or Robb, but another one?"

Arya paused for a moment. Everyone in Winterfell knew of Jon Snow, so she rarely had to explain who he was. She did not like calling him a bastard, but she was not sure how else to say it. "He is my brother too, just . . . he is my father's son, but not my mother's son. Most days he sits with the rest of us, but when we have lordly guests, my mother doesn't let him. Um . . . I try to sit near the end of the table and if the dais is more full I can sit close enough to jape with him. But today my mother would have made her stern face if I sat that far away from everyone else at our table."

"Well, thanks for explaining it. You're lucky that he gets to stay here with you. My uncle has a bastard too, but he is fostered in Deepwood Motte with the Glovers. Uncle Halys gets to visit him, but not so regularly. Daryn and I do not see him at all."

Arya had never thought about Jon's place in Winterfell in that light. She was very young when she first noticed how some people treated him. She hated it and thought that it was far crueler than her favorite brother deserved. Hearing about how Lydrea's natural cousin was not even allowed to reside with his family made feel better about Jon's position. She would have to tell him about Lord Hornwood's other son.

"That seems even more unfair than making everyone call him 'Snow'," Arya said. "But what about your family? You have your cousin, but what about any brothers or sisters?"

Lydrea's expression turned serious. She inhaled deeply before answering.

"No brothers, no sisters. My mother died birthing me. My father fell four years later. He was Lord Hornwood's younger brother." Lydrea appeared hesitant to talk about her parents. She turned from Arya to lean her elbows on the walkway's rail. Looking back over her shoulder at Arya, she resumed, "I am fortunate in having an uncle like mine. He is fond of me, I know, but he knows little of raising girls. My Aunt Donella is kind, but she is usually busy with the duties of keeping a lord's household. Any hours she can spare, she spends with Daryn, which is important because he is the heir . . . so I have my run of the castle most days."

"You must love all that! No septa telling you what to do, no maester repeating his lessons over and again."

Lydrea smiled at Arya's burst of an answer. "I do enjoy being free to do as I please, but don't you feel cared for when your septa or maester, _or your mother_, insist that you learn to do things the proper way? Doesn't it make you feel precious to them that they go to such trouble, as if your lessons are a vital task for a daughter of Winterfell?"

Lydrea raised her brow slightly and gave Arya a moment to think on what she had said. Arya thought that the twelve year old girl spoke like a woman grown. Not in the way that Sansa did when she reprimanded Arya for not behaving like a lady. Lydrea Hornwood's words reminded Arya of how Ser Rodrik Cassel would explain what he thought, like she was not stupid even if she didn't know something. She thought of Lydrea with Ser Rodrik's long grey whiskers and giggled.

Lydrea looked bemused and continued, "I spend my days differently that you would, I think. I do not like to bother the servants and I like to go to my secret nooks of the castle where no one can find me. I like the places where I can just watch the castle moving about. Places like here," she said, gesturing to where the girls were standing with a sweeping nod. "But, my other favorite is riding!"

Arya thought about all of the things that she would do in Winterfell if no one would come chasing after her. Finding a quiet sill from which to watch the people walking or working in the yard would not be one of them.

"The stable master at home says that if mounts are boarded in their stalls for too long, they become marish, even the garrons," Lydrea said. "So, he lets me be the one to ride them when they need it. Most of all, you have to see my Drifts."

"What are 'drifts'?"

"Drifts is my horse," she answered. "My uncle let me keep him when he was still a foal. I named him 'Drifts' because when he was first born his shoulders and his rump were much paler than the rest of his coat and I thought that they looked like snow drifts. Don't laugh at his name. I was littler at the time."

Arya liked horses and could ride her pony even without Hullen or Harwin holding her lead. But, she was not nearly the horseman that Robb or Jon was.

"Then I want to go! Do you see that old tower with the broken crown?" Arya pointed and did not wait for an answer. "The stables are right over there. If we –"

"Settle, settle Arya. He's not here. Drifts is only three and is not yet ready for heavy riding. But, in a year or so he will be perfect for it."

In her eagerness to run to the stables, Arya had taken Lydrea's hand once again, before she was able to interject. Arya released her hand and stepped closer. She leaned her back against the railing and waited to hear more.

"He's a gaited palfrey and they're the best mounts for distance. He is a mixed-blood and mostly bright red-brown, like almost the color of rust. I can only ride him in the yard just yet, but I've been training him since he was just a babe of a horse. He recognizes me every time I walk into the stables and he'll be a wonderful riding horse one day, I just know."

Arya slowly forgot about her plan to go exploring and just stayed on the walk with Lydrea. They talked about horses and Arya's brothers and many other things. The older girl was easy to talk to and Arya did not feel like they were courteous ladies in an embroidery circle. She could shout and move about to better tell her stories and Lydrea did not once tell her to be still. The shadows below them grew long and they returned to the keep. She was surprised to see Jon lingering in the hallway nearby, but then Arya remembered that she had promised to come find him.

"Jon, this is my new friend Lydrea Hornwood. She's Lord Hornwood's niece. She likes horses and quiet places in her castle," Arya stopped at that and looked at Lydrea. She was not sure if she was supposed to keep what Lydrea told her as a secret. _But, I tell Jon all my secrets._

"Well met, my lady," Jon said. Lydrea was smiling, so Arya concluded that she did not break trust with her. "I hope that my sister did not cause you any trouble in your exploring?"

Arya gave Jon a shove against his side. She said, "I only took her up here, mostly. And we talked. . ."

Jon did not seem to be paying Arya any mind.

"Winterfell is beautiful," said the Hornwood girl. "Arya's stories make her little adventures sound wondrous. And, she had quite a lot to say about you . . . and her other brothers."

Arya slung an arm around the small of her brother's back and leaned her weight against him. Lydrea and Jon kept talking, but Arya began to feel sleepy. She wondered why she wanted to run to the stables just a little while earlier. Now, she would much rather walk to her bed.

She was happy to feel Jon bend down and pick her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder.

As she closed her eyes, Arya Stark heard, "Come, Lady Lydrea. Let me bring my sister to her chambers, and then I will escort you to the guest quarters."


	3. Jon - A Day in the Godswood

No matter how Jon turned in his bed, he couldn't settle himself into a comfortable position. His chest was aflutter with nervous excitement. Even alone in the pitch darkness, Jon tried to hide his smile. He did not know what he wanted to do right then, but he was sure that he did not desire sleep. Jon wished he still shared a room with his brother, Robb. His slightly older brother had more experience with what stirred Jon. Robb would know what to do.

Only a short while earlier, Lydrea Hornwood followed Jon as he carried his little sister to her room. Arya had fallen asleep almost as soon as he picked her up. Both Jon and Lydrea were silent on their walk to the opposite side of the Great Keep. After Jon quietly closed Arya's door, he was desperate to find the right words. When Arya first introduced him to Lydrea, he'd more than enough to say. If anything, he had been flooded with too much to say. Alone with her in the torch lit corridor, Jon was at a loss. They reached the stairs before Jon thought to offer Lydrea his arm. She looped her arm through his and offered him a quick smile before looking down at the steps. When they reached the guest quarters, she thanked him. Jon had bid her a good night and turned away before hearing her.

"Jon" she said. "Might be that I would like to see the godswood on the morrow. If that wouldn't be improper or disagreeable. . . "

He'd consented by way of a smile and a nod, then walked back to his room.

Jon drew his furs up to cover his shoulder and shifted onto his side. He told himself that he would do better in the morning. _She would not be embarrassed by the company of bastard, or would she?_ _No,_ he concluded._ She smiled and took my arm. She asked for me to accompany her._ He would push aside his tense nerves and impress Lydrea, he told himself. How one went about such a task, he didn't know.

Jon Snow rose shortly after dawn the following morning. He made his way to the kitchens and broke his fast while the cooks were still preparing the meal. Anxious to begin this particular day, he stepped out of the Great Hall and most of the castle was only beginning to stir. He looked across the yard and saw the wisps of black smoke from Mikken lighting his forge. Suddenly, Jon realized that he had nothing to do; he hadn't intended to do anything this early. Seeing no better option, he walked to the armory and Mikken.

Winterfell's armory was not nearly so old as its castle walls or its towers, but the grey stones had stood long enough that few could discern that it was only a few centuries old. Jon entered through the armory's open twin doors.

"Nothing better to do on this morn' than wander into my smithy, eh?" Mikken teased. He was a stout man with thick arms. Most days he wore only breeches and his apron, even when cold winds blew in from the north. On this day, he wore a blackened tunic, which may have once been green, with his sleeves bunched up to his elbows.

"I suppose I could lend you my hands," Jon said. "I do not see either of your boys about."

"Them two 'prentices are not worth a bear's fart until they've broke their fast. There," Mikken gestured to a wood pile on the opposite wall. "Go 'head and toss in three of those logs."

After Jon threw them on top of the kindling in the kiln-brick forge, Mikken said, "While we wait for them to catch, I s'pose I could teach you a thing or three about smithing. This here is pig-iron, it's shipped up the White Knife by traders. Iron is iron and one need not know the good from the poor. Is all the same."

Mikken reached into one shelf pulled out a slim, round bar of steel, near as long as a dirk. He tossed it to Jon. The metal was heavier than he'd expected, even knowing the weight of a real sword.

"You look at that steel, then look at this," said Mikken as he pulled out a similar bar half way out of the upper shelf. Jon could see no difference with the first, save for its length. "Does you know the first thin' about forging a sword?"

"The first is iron ore, dug from the ground," Jon said. "Then you make iron, then steel. You heat the steel and then hammer out a blade. Last comes the crossguard and the rest."

"Ho –huff!" Mikken's laugh turning into a cough before the breath was half way out of his chest. "You make it out to be so easy, boy. Mayhaps, I can leave you to the steelwork and wander off to find me a wench in Wintertown."

The blacksmith stepped towards the forge and turned the left side of his face to the flame. He seemed pleased by the heat, added four logs to the furnace, and continued the lesson. "If the day ever comes that your lord father or Poole ever sends you off for supplies, you remember this: good steel 'nd bad steel looks much the same. Takes half a lifetime to learn to smelt iron into ingots –them steel sticks in the shelves. For sword steel, don't bother with any who smith claims his is the best prices at market. You find yourself an ol' master and you pay him his silver, or mayhaps gold dragons.

"If some merchant sot sells you poor steel and your smith clangs out a sword for you, say he does e'erything as he 'pose to, you are not like to notice the difference until some knightly whoreson's blade shatters yours. For a timber axe or a gate hinge, don't you worry none about paying good coin. But for swords, you find yourself steel you can trust. You heat it white-hot before you quench it. If the bloody thing only glows orange, when comes time you need bet your life on a blade, you'll find it softer than a dead man's cock. Huff, huar, huff! There's the flattening and folding and tempering in a low flame and the rest, but that's a lesson for another day."

Mikken laid two ashen swords into the fire and closed the brick-face door. After a short while, he opened the forge. Jon looked in and saw the glowing, yellow blades.

"The flames are a pale yellow; you should leave them in for a bit longer."

Mikken laughed at that and replied, "Boy, I'm only tempering the blade, heatin' it up a bit, seeing as these swords are all but done. That color is only from what smiths call _maiden's heat_. In the forging I did yesterday, the coal makes them glow yellow then red then blue, then, hours later, red again and finally white. The glow you want is the _old whore's heat_. She's already made the rounds, yellow and red and such. And, she's the one you want to be pounding in the end! Hough-har!"

Jon grinned at the Northman's coarse humor and peered out the armory's doors. Seeing that the castle had awoken, Jon Snow reminded Mikken not to burn his fingers off and left the burly blacksmith to his work.

Bran was running out of the Great Hall and swung around the side of the keep. If he had seen any other boy at such a sprint, Jon would have been alarmed. His younger brother, though, only seemed to be capable of two paces, still and full gallop. After Bran, others filtered out of the tall doors at a more civil speed. Jon stood aside, waiting. He hoped that Robb and Theon would not pass by, as Jon wished for another's company that day.

Sansa, Jeyne, and Lydrea were the next to step into the courtyard. Through the scattering men, Jon saw Lydrea give his sister an eager wave before making her way toward him. Sansa saw Jon and her smile became a look of confusion, then a grimace.

"Ly- my lady," Jon sputtered.

"My lord," Lydrea responded.

He was not lord in truth, of course. He had no lands or great title to inherit, but he liked the courtesy and did not see fit to correct her.

"The godswood, then? The stories say that the trees have been untouched by any axe for more than eight thousand years." Jon was less interested in telling history, than he was in seeking privacy.

"Please, lead the way," she said.

Jon took her across the yard and the open pavilion. The open gate to the godswood was heavy and stubborn. Rarely did anyone trouble themselves to shut it. Once inside the forest within the castle, Lydrea said she was surprised by the size and stillness of it. She explained that in Castle Hornwood, nowhere in the much small godswood was ever out of site of the castle towers. On the rare day that her amiable uncle sought solemn prayer to the old gods, he would ride out beyond the gates into the surrounding woods, she explained.

"In my uncle's forest, the Hornwood, you're far more likely to come upon elk or moose than bears or wolves. By name alone, I'd suspect that your_Wolfswood_ outside this castle is more dangerous."

"It is not so troublesome as it sounds," he told her. "But, I still would not advise my lady to seek out any wolf pelts alone."

Jon and Lydrea wound their between the sentinels and firs. Each ancient tree left little light beneath its branches. Darting from shadows to light, Jon tried to lead her around the gnarled roots and thorny undergrowth. Every few paces, he looked back over his shoulder to make sure that she was not having difficulty. Her steps were steady. Jon turned fully around when they reached their destination.

"Have you ever felt a hot pool before?" He told her, "Water bubbles up from the depths."

"How far down does it go?" Lydrea asked.

"No one knows. If you drop a stone into the side with the churning bubbles, you'll never see it again. No one will, not in thousands and hundreds of years."

Jon tried to sound ominous, but she just giggled. He continued, "The water isn't like the still pools elsewhere in the godswood. It's hotter than you'd ever guess. Try it!"

Lydrea arched an eyebrow at him. "Would you have me leap in? Wearing my dress and all?"

Jon laughed at that and clarified that he only meant for her to dip a toe in. Her left foot stepped on the heel of her right and she slide from her dark leather shoe. Jon took his first long look at the girl. The glances that he shot her way during the feast had never lingered longer than a moment. She wore a dress of dark green wool. The folds of its white hem deepened as she lifted its skirt. Jon had never thought much on women's garments, yet still he noticed that she wore no stockings. The bodice of her dress laced in the front and was tied loosely with black leather. Lydrea had pulled her brown hair behind her shoulders. A thin brass chain looped twice around the back of her unplaided hair.

"It's hot!" Lydrea exclaimed withdrawing her foot. Jon raised his brow at that. She dipped her toes back into the pool and splashed at him.

They sat down together on the dry forest floor. He snapped an inch off a twig and threw it into the water.

Lydrea asked him about his sisters and the baby, then about Bran, and finally Robb.

He said, "Having him around is almost like having a twin. Robb has always been with me. Most every memory I have includes him too. One day, he will be a great lord." Jon stopped. A thought occurred to him:

_Robb._

As far back as Jon could remember, visiting lords had encouraged their daughters to dance with his brother at feasts. Robb gave few of them second glances. He liked the attention, Jon knew, and was more teasing in his japes than Jon ever dared to be. However, none had succeeded in catching the heir of Winterfell's eye enough for him to approach his lord father for a match.

_Is this Lord Hornwood's doing? Befriend the bastard brother and win the affections of the would-be lord?_

Jon noticed that Lydrea was staring, obviously waiting for him to continue.

"When he is a man grown, he will be the desire of every girl in the North. . ."

"I'm sure that your father will find him a fair daughter of a high lord to be his Lady of Winterfell. Fathers know how important a good match can be for the family, for the House. Wedding your daughter to a lord's son is the oldest seal of an alliance. Fathers often spend years mulling over matches."

"I suppose that your father has some match in mind. . ."

"Jon," she replied with a subtle edge to her voice. "My _uncle_ has probably thought about my hand, but nieces are not equal to daughters. A lord cannot so easily buy an ally with his brother's offspring. That marriage doesn't bind the houses the same. I hear how ladies talk. Daughters are traded with little enough regard by their fathers. Few lords think that an uncle would care enough about his niece's welfare to guarantee his allegiance."

"I'm sorry, my lady. I didn't mean. . ." Jon wondered if his father had ever thought of securing a wife for him. He guessed not. Jon could only give a wife, or a son, a bastard's name or no name at all. He clenched shut his eyes and drew in his breath. It was all he could do to hold in the unwelcome emotion. He felt her squeeze his arm.

"Whatever troubles you, we are alone," Lydrea said. "You can trust me with whatever you're trying not to say."

"My lady . . . I just . . ."

Jon looked into her eyes and saw her resolve. Despite his instincts, he longed to explain the thoughts that ran through his mind. "Even as little boys, Robb and I knew visiting _bannermen_ often meant visiting _daughters_. The girls would present him with carved wooden horses, and the like, from their fathers. Later came toy swords and painted shields. Of late, the gifts that lords insist that their daughters give my brother are smiles and dances."

"And perhaps you guessed that I'm biding my time before doing likewise? Is that what you think of me?" Still patient with him, Lydrea's tone conveyed her curiosity. "I notice more than you think, Jon Snow. When lords sit in your Great Hall, the heir receives praise and, as you say, gifts. The forgotten child receives a reminder of their place."

Jon glared into the water. He offered no response.

"Robb Stark will inherit your father's lordship. His place will be in Winterfell. He can no more be rid of that position, than you can expect to take it."

"_Be rid of it?_ What do you mean by that? Winterfell's the greatest seat in the North. It rivals any castle in the Seven Kingdoms."

Lydrea giggled at him. "I do not mean to insult your home, Jon. Only, what if Robb ever wished to . . . um . . . ride south and live off the skill of his sword? What if he wished to sail amidst the Step Stones aboard a pirate captain's galley? Or even to find himself a pretty wife and breed horses in peace, without the burdens of a lordship?

"No matter what he would wish or desire," she said, "your brother can have naught else but your father's and grandfather's life. Jon, what do _you _wish for? Forgive me, but, a bastard son is free in way that heirs are not."

Without forethought or carefully crafted words, Jon told her that he hadn't thought much on his place, his fate. He explained that the uncertainty scared him, or at least he thought it did. Jon knew that he did not wish to father a bastard or to burden anyone he cared for with his shameful surname. Lydrea listened to his clumsy words with understanding in her eyes.

"I know many of the same worries. I never knew my mother. You still have your father, and try as he might an uncle will never replace a father. But, Lady Donella is more of a mother to me than Lady Stark appears to be, for you. A natural son, though, is free from the restraints of duty. He's free from any political match . . . And from his father's fate, for better or not." Lydrea smiled at him and finished, "Your fate's not so bleak as you say, Jon Snow the Sullen!"

With her words still ringing in Jon's mind, Lydrea slipped on her shoe, let loose a sharp chuckle, and ran off the way they had first come. After a moment of doubt, he chased after her. Side by side, they ran out of the godswood and passed the pavilion stalls with leaves in their hair and dirt-tinged clothes.

"Seems to me, the moose-mare is fond of the snow! We can all hope that she hasn't dirtied herself overmuch in her frolics!"

Jon looked up to see Theon Greyjoy smirking down at him from the bridge overlooking the practice yard. Robb and Daryn Hornwood stood on either side of him with bows in their hands. Jon flushed with embarrassment. Feeling the instant ache in his chest, he might as well have been struck with one of Greyjoy's arrows.

Daryn laughed. He did not appear to be one to take japes to heart.

Theon looked overly pleased with himself.

Robb was stunned and said nothing.

Seeing the array of arrows feathering the hay bales and dirt surrounding the archer's target on the far side of the practice yard and more than half a hundred paces away, Jon could guess at what they'd been doing all morning. On another day, he would have joined them. Not today and not after Theon's mockery. Jon thanked Lydrea for her company. Dumbfounded, he gestured with an open hand at the guest quarters, as if she did not know where they were.

Then, Jon Snow trudged off to nowhere in particular. He heard Robb call out to him. He neither looked back, nor listened to his brother's words.


	4. Catelyn - A Proposition

Lady Catelyn Stark was rearranging her sleeping furs. Her new maid proved unfamiliar with how to properly lay bedding, despite all the years that her mother filled the same role adequately. Catelyn heard a knock on the door of her quarters.

She stopped in the middle of her task and answered, "Yes? Enter." She expected to see her maid and untucked the corner of the bedding so that she could instruct the girl. When her gaze rose to see whom she had admitted to her rooms, Catelyn quickly pulled her hands from the furs and linens. She straightened her posture to reach her full height and asked, "What brings you here?" The tone of her voice was warmer than she'd intended, due to her utter disbelief that this boy would ever approach her here.

Her husband's bastard son must have thought her tone welcoming, because he gently shut the door behind him and stepped forward. Catelyn took a moment to look him over. At two-and-ten years, this boy was looking more and more like her husband. His grey eyes and dark features were a further reminder of her husband's shameful indiscretion.

"Lady Stark, I hope that I find you well," he began. "I had hoped that you would spare a few minutes so that I may speak with you."

Catelyn could see in the boy's expression that any mistaken warmth from her brief response had been righted by her glare. Jon Snow stood as straight as his boyish frame, which was yet to gain even a modest amount of girth, would allow. Catelyn noticed that his eyes were staring at the wall beside her, rather than meeting her gaze. She had seen this look often, but not from him. It was the formal stance of a castle guard. _This boy thinks himself Jory Cassel . . . or at least Fat Tom._

Lady Catelyn found herself more curious than she would have expected. "Searching me out in my chambers is less than appropriate. But, speak what you will."

"I have come to make a request of you, Lady Stark. As you well know, I would only be here if I thought the matter. . . important."

Catelyn's only reply was to raise her eyebrows and gesture with an upended palm.

At her conveyed impatience, Jon Snow relaxed his shoulders and met her eyes. "My lady, have you ever thought on my future? On where I will be in ten, twenty years?" he asked.

Catelyn often mused about which barren wasteland she would prefer to send her husband's bastard. Coldly, she said, "Boy, ask what you will and be gone."

"Lord Stark will not send me from this castle. And his heir. . . won't either. In ten years, your daughters will be married and living on their lord husbands' lands. Your two youngest sons will be preparing to begin their families in holdfasts of their own. . . And yet, I will still be here. Your own lord husband's heir will, mayhaps, name me as the captain of his guard. Might be, I will live out my days teaching my nephews to use sword and bow, and my nights pacing the walls of Winterfell."

Lady Catelyn could feel her face flush at the thought of enduring this bastard boy in her home for the rest of her years.

Jon Snow continued, "Such would be a good life and more than most bastards dare aspire to."

Catelyn's temper took hold of her. "I will not tolerate mockery in my home." She hid her fiery ire beneath a mask of calm. "You dare come into my chambers to remind me that someday all, save one, of my children will make their homes elsewhere, and I will still be forced to endure your presence?"

The boy, with his mockery of Stark features, shifted his weight and glanced at his boots, but did not move to leave her room. He thumbed the center lace of his doublet; which was shabby by noble standards, but more than a bastard had right to expect. Jon Snow slouched in place, as if the weight of the words he wished to say lay heavy atop the shoulders.

"Lady Stark, I do not intend . . . that . . . to give offense," he sputtered. "Only, I expect that you would choose different for me. The request I now make of you, is thus: Help me find another path . . . one beyond these walls. Ser Rodrik told me that lowborn men who receive knighthood choose names of their own for their new, knightly Houses. In the North, knighthood means little and is uncommon. It is a Southron custom rooted in the Seven new gods, as you well know. Would you write to Riverrun. . . and. . . request that they allow me to squire-"

"What?" Catelyn responded. She could not remember a more inappropriate question in her life, nor one easier to deny. "As if seeing your face in Winterfell is not shameful enough, you would have me let you parade around my father's castle?! Slump your grubby attire, and the jape you make of noble courtesy, out of my quarters. Never presume yourself so familiar again. I owe you nothing! You have taken more than your due these last two-and-ten years. The Others can take your wishes."

Catelyn turned from the bastard. She leaned to her right to tuck the bedding that she'd forgotten back into her featherbed. Lady Catelyn's hope that her words were stern enough to put an end to this farce went unfulfilled. Jon Snow hadn't moved. Catelyn had no reason to think that any of her husband's guard was within earshot of her room, but she suspected that if she were to shout, at least one servant would hear.

"Please. . . I know asking this of you is beyond odd," Jon said. "You have every right to demand that I leave. But, think on where this will lead."

Lady Catelyn did not imagine that she would ever acquiesce to any of this folly. However, she refrained from calling out for the moment.

The boy took the momentary silence as Catelyn's leave to continue. "I will spend six years, or so, squiring for a knight in Lord Tully's employ. When my time comes, Lady Stark, I will sit vigil in a sept, kneel before a Riverland knight, and whatever else is required of me. I will rise as a knight. My lady, I'll be afforded a name of my choosing and status enough to take a wife, land, and a keep of mine own."

Catelyn's mouth gaped open, but no sound sprung forth. Jon Snow stared at her intently and resumed, "Not only will I possess control of my own fate, but, more to my point, I will live outside the walls of Winterfell. My lady, if you know of a better, more expedient way to send me from your view, please tell me, 'cept of course sending me to any of the seven hells," he finished with a controlled hint of a grin.

_And there lays the baited hook_, she realized. The_Starks_ tended to speak so plainly, that even this modest dramatic flourish must have taken the boy hours, if not days, to plan.

Catelyn reflected on her near impossible choice. The thought of watching her son training in the yard with her husband's shame during her later years made her skin itch. Even worse, the picture in her mind's eye of staring from her window and seeing this black haired embodiment of her husband's broken vow playfully instructing her grandsons with wooden swords was more than she could bear.

This bastard boy would not be news to her family. Her brother, her father, and the Tully household knew of Jon Snow. When she first told Edmure about the bastard in her home, two years had passed since the end of the rebellion. Her younger brother offered a tender squeeze of her shoulder and some sympathetic words, long since forgotten. Lord Hoster gave her no more than a gruff snort. He had married his two daughters to the Wardens North and East before the Riverlands' part in King Robert's ascension began. To him, his fatherly responsibility ended on the day of her and Lysa's weddings. Catelyn's Uncle Brynden had seemed understanding of Ned Stark's behavior, having spent the better part of his life in the company of soldiers. Yet, his protective posturing and stern words for the young Lord Stark were supportive of Catelyn without requiring justification.

An old worry leapt into Lady Catelyn's mind. During her first year in Winterfell, she fretted over her son's birthright. Robert Baratheon was king and her new husband's dearest friend. In those days, Ned exchanged letters with the King's Hand, Jon Arryn, frequently. Every raven from King's Landing had made her heart twist in her chest. _It is only a matter of time before the Lord Arryn sends a declaration with the king's own seal legitimizing Jon Snow as Jon Stark, second in line for his father's lordship._ She didn't understand why Ned hadn't written to Robert about his bastard. He doted on Jon Snow, as much as he did her Robb.

After so many years, a new concern occurred to Catelyn. _Perhaps Ned is only waiting for the boy to be a man grown before asking Robert to remove the bastard surname._ She was not entirely acquainted with the Northern rights of succession. To her, they seemed less formal than those of the Riverlands and the South. It might be that Jon, if legitimized by a royal decree, would come before her Bran and baby Rickon. If Robb sired only daughters, a black haired, grey-eyed son of Jon might sit in the Lord of Winterfell's chair and wield the ancient Stark greatsword.

_If Jon Snow held a knight's name, surely Ned would not feel compelled to gift the boy his._

"So, boy, if I were to aid you in this folly, would you swear to never set foot within Winterfell again?"

Snow had the gall to deny her request. He shook his head and replied, "Lady Stark, that is more than I can promise."

"I'll not endure any of this only to see _Ser Snow_ residing on Stark lands and riding to Winterfell to sup. No, I will have your word that you will reside elsewhere. Nor in Riverrun, either," she added hastily. "You will find your own place in service to some lord, guarding some merchant, or in some sod hut, and it will be at a distance from here. Torrhen's Square is forty-odd leagues from Winterfell, that far at least. If you will not consent to _never_ returning, fine; you will _seldom_ return here, solely for occasions or urgent matters."

Jon Snow bowed his head in agreement.

"To finally be rid of you, I would crawl through dragonsbreath. The Seven help me," Catelyn said, shaking her head. "I will send a raven to my father at Riverrun and my uncle, the Blackfish, at the Gates of the Moon. You will squire for Ser Brynden Tully at Riverrun," she said with a smirk. "He will be irked enough to be back in my father's home, and he will show you little sympathy in your training. Expect long days and more bruises than in all your years in Winterfell."

Catelyn pretended not to notice the excitement barely contained behind Jon Snow's contemplative expression. She warned, "He will require you to prove yourself before he'll ever consider touching his blade to your shoulders. If you are killed or maimed in some battle, do not expect empathy from me."

The woman who was once a Tully girl paused for one final moment to ponder this most unlikely of agreements. After a deep breath, she declared, "You have my consent. Be gone from here. Do not expect me to rock you to sleep at night. You are still Lord Eddard's bastard, but at least I know that you will be, at long last, out of my sight."

Jon Snow gave her a respectful bow, with as solemn a face as he could muster. He pulled open the oak door and all but skipped out into the hallway.

_Ned should have sent him away twelve years ago. Now I have done what Lord Stark could not._


	5. Ned - An Interruption

Ned Stark dropped the parchment and rubbed his eyes. They were weary from looking over ledgers from Vayon Poole and Maester Luwin. Ned glanced out the window of his solar to see that dusk was nearly upon him. He could not recall how long ago the two men had left his solar, but supposed that an hour or three had passed. After all of his years, Lord Stark still tired of this task. Nonetheless, he knew how important the provisions in his castle stores would be. Not even the maesters of the Citadel knew for certain how long this summer would last. When winter arrived, the White Knife would freeze and the roads would become treacherous. Food was mayhaps the most important of supplies, but far from the only thing needed to survive winter. A knock on the heavy door mercifully brought Ned back from the worries of winter. He gladly bid whoever waited outside to enter.

Robb opened the door slowly, but once inside the lad looked as if he wanted to slam the oak to kindling. "Father, is it true about Jon?" he asked.

Ned thought that his heir might have sought any manner of truths. Rather than answering, he waited for Robb to explain his meaning.

His son saw the lack of understanding written on his face. "That he's leaving for Riverrun, of course. What else would I be asking about?"

This certainly was not one of the meanings that Ned expected to hear. "Riverrun? No, I cannot imagine a suitable cause for Jon to travel there. Why do you ask?"

"He only just told me, and I ran straight here. Mother agreed to send word to Grandfather and her uncle, Brynden the Blackfish. Jon is to squire in Riverrun."

Ned would have thought his son's words part of some jest if not for the worry on Robb's face. He trusted his wife in all matters, save those that concerned Jon Snow. Ned knew that Catelyn did not care for the boy; on more than one occasion she'd asked that he be sent from Winterfell. Each time, Ned baulked at the requests. _After our last dispute, does she intend some treachery upon the boy?_

Before Ned's dark musings could take root, the door swung open again.

"Why does he have to go?!" Arya shouted, not feeling the need for specifics.

"Robb, Arya, this is the first I have heard of anything regarding Jon. I know nothing of this." Ned assumed that Arya had also come sprinting to him immediately upon hearing this news from Jon. Feeling dumbfounded, he asked, "What is this all about?"

Before Robb could answer, Arya jumped in front of him and insisted, "He's being stupid and doesn't want to talk about it! But, _I'm_ not stupid, I know what's going on. He thinks that if he were a knight, then _Lady Lydrea_ would want to marry him and then they'd have babies!"

Robb pulled her back and scoffed. "What would _you_ know of babies?"

Ned stifled his laughter. He sent his daughter to find Jon and bring the boy to him.

When Jon stepped across the threshold, he wore an anxious smile. Ned told Robb and Arya to return to their rooms. He wished to speak frankly with Jon and did not want the other children to eavesdrop. Robb scooped up a reluctant Arya and carried her under his arm.

"So this is not some jest you have told the two of them," Ned began with a smile. "What, pray tell, is going on in my household?"

Jon confirmed what Robb had said, while excluding how in the gods' mercy he had convinced Catelyn to be a part of this and any mention of babies.

Lord Eddard replied, "If you three were, in fact, performing some mummer's farce at my expense, it would not be as ridiculous as the truth. I want to know what Lady Catelyn said about this idea, but first lay out your own reasoning."

"Father, I will soon be a man grown, have you not thought on what future awaits me?" Jon's question, though softly asked, was more of an accusation than a query.

"I must admit that I have not put proper thought into your place once you reach manhood. It seems to me only a moon's turn ago that you and Robb first began to run about the grounds. Perhaps you have some thoughts on the matter?" Ned shifted in his seat and sat a bit straighter.

"Winterfell is my home and I will always think of it like that. But, they will always see me as your . . . bastard. The Bastard of Winterfell is a burdensome title."

Ned had never heard Jon speak of his parentage in such blunt terms.

"If I am to ever hold a place of mine own. . . I have to leave."

Jon's solemn look crept into a grin, and he said, "I've struck a bargain with Lady Stark. She will arrange for me to squire for her uncle; she assured me that her family wouldn't refuse her. I hope to earn a knighthood and with it the right to replace 'Snow' with a surname of my own."

Ned said nothing in return. He simply listened and watched Jon plan a fate for himself.

"When I'm truly a man grown, with a proper title, I can take a wife and start a new house. I'll be a bannerman of Robb's and perhaps he'll agree to foster his nephews when they're old enough. Think of that, Father! My _sons_ learning to ride and swing a sword alongside Robb's. And. . . they will bear their _father's_ name. They'll never be addressed as 'Snow'."

Jon continued, "Father, I promised to abide by a concession, and I know not how to proceed."

Worry crept over the boy's hopeful expression, and he shifted in place.

Ned told him that he would do anything in his power to help.

"I gave Lady Stark my word that once I've been knighted. . . that I'll leave Winterfell and the surrounding Stark lands. She did not want me to live in the castle or in any of the nearby holdfasts, and to only return on occasions: name days, the harvest feast, and the like. What do I do? Father, where will I go?"

Ned felt a sense of pride in the boy. _Jon will make for a caring father._

"I can ask my bannermen for them to fit you with a holdfast on their lands," Ned suggested.

"No, Father. As the _Lord of Winterfell_ and _Warden of the North_, your request isn't any different from a command. They couldn't refuse you and may come to resent me." Jon softly kicked at the floorboards before looking up with uncertainty in his eyes. "I am going to such lengths to be my own man. . . can you think of anything else?"

Lord Eddard regarded this for a moment. While he respected Jon for the desire, he couldn't reconcile Jon's firm position on help from him, with the boy's request of his wife.

"My son, I understand a man's desire to strike out on his own, with little charity from others. If this is so important to you, why did you approach Lady Catelyn for her help?"

Jon let out brief laugh. He shook his head as if he still could not believe that Catelyn consented. Jon crossed the room and took a seat opposite Ned. He explained, "Firstly, I was more surprised when I heard her agree than you are now. On my honor, I swear it was all I could do to keep myself from fleeing when she first denied me."

Ned chuckled. With a training sword in hand, Jon seemed fearless in the yard. Even on the afternoons following a thrashing from Jory Cassel or one of the other guardsmen, Jon still stood his ground. To think of this tall lad, about to face proper knights a thousand leagues and half again from home, shaking at the sight of Eddard's wife was quite amusing.

Jon said, "Asking for her help is different from letting you ask Lord Glover or Lady Mormont for help. Lady Stark could have denied me and told me to bugger off. She did so no less than three times, using her own words of course. Also, her aid comes at a price. I know that she has asked you to send me from Winterfell. Did you know that she has yelled that I have to leave here _to my face?_And worse. . ."

The pace of Jon's breath had visibly increased. He inhaled deeply before correcting himself, "Father, I shouldn't have mentioned that. Those days are in the past and if we can only find some hovel where I can live, everything else will align."

Ned Stark looked down at the ledgers still laying before him. For a moment, he thought of salted fish and coal for the forge. An idea came to him. "Jon, would a keep of a different sort be amenable? One perhaps a few days ride from Winterfell, but on its own nonetheless."

Ned waited for a nod of agreement before elaborating, "The Wolfswood is dotted with old holdfasts and towers. Most have long since fallen to ruin, but I have seen, perhaps two or three that still stand. With enough time and working hands, I expect that the best of the holdfasts would make a fine seat for a landed knight."

The faces of Eddard and Jon shown with startlingly similar smiles.

"How long do Southron boys squire before they become 'Sers'? I wager five years or near enough to make no matter. Even if I'm wrong and it takes you, say, ten or more years to earn their oils and anointments," Eddard gave the boy a mirthful grin to show that he was only teasing and not mocking his pursuit, "I'll make use of that time. I'll pay good silver to woodsmen from Wintertown and masons from White Harbor, and be glad for it. That will be my gift to you. And don't think to reject it; this is something that a father should do for a son."

Ned got to his feet, and Jon pounced into an embrace.

They left the solar together. Jon turned and headed for the stairs. _Off to find Robb and a skin of wine, most like._

Ned took one step to his left, towards the children's rooms. He stopped before taking a second.

Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell was unsure of which duty he was supposed to fulfill first: his duty as a father or as a husband.

Duty aside, he found himself far too curious about precisely how Jon had earned Catelyn's consent. Thus, Ned turned on his heels and strode off to her chambers.


	6. Jon - A Venture Out

Though the sun was nearly touching the horizon, Jon Snow remained seated on his mossy rock in Riverrun's godswood.

He'd spent a moon's turn in this Southron castle, serving as Ser Brynden the Blackfish's squire. He leant down to dip his roughspun rag into the thin stream, then resumed scouring the old knight's armor. Ser Brynden chastised him about everything he did, even his scrubbing. _Circles, Jon. Never forth and back._

Early each day, squiring resembled far less the duties of a knight, than those of a handmaiden. His waking mornings were filled with fetching watered wine and charred fish. Once the sun had risen properly, Jon would tend their horses, his mare and Ser Brynden's courser. Between these morning duties and the ones he performed at the close of each day, Jon Snow trained.

On this evening, Jon looked at the woods about him. The trees were more sparse here than in Winterfell's ancient godswood. Light easily found its way through the canopy onto the mossy forest floor, even at that late hour. This place had none of the solemnity that Jon was accustomed to finding in a godswood: bubbling brooks instead of still pools of black water, flowering trees rather than grey-green pines, and its slender weirwood looked a sapling compared to the heart tree in Winterfell. Even the smell, all flowers and grass, reminded Jon that he was in a place better suited for children's play than heartfelt reflection.

Jon tucked the washing cloth into his belt and tossed the Blackfish's pale blue armor over his shoulder. He kicked a pebble out of the stream before taking his feet.

He mused that this Southron godswood had its own charms. Nevertheless, Jon was far from ready to take this for a godswood in truth, and, since he'd never ever seeing another soul come to kneel before its weirwood, most like he never would. Still, this garden of redwoods was oft filled with life. During the day, bees, song birds, and stumbling children with their nursemaids filled the wood with the sounds of summer. But just before evenfall, Jon could find solitude between the trees. Most days, he would find his way to a new spot along one of the streams or beneath the dark auburn trunks and set about one task or another. Doing so reminded him of his father.

Though Jon Snow was his only squire, the Blackfish had taken over the training of all of Riverrun's squires and young knights from Ser Desmond Grell upon his return to Riverrun. Ser Desmond didn't seem put out by this. In fact, he spent most of his time in the yard each day leaning on a fence laughing from that portly belly of his at everything Ser Brynden shouted at the boys.

Jon thought the Blackfish was too slow in seeing his skill with a sword. In Winterfell, Jon was leaner than Robb and most of the boys who were training to be guards. He had to rely on his quickness more than his strength. Here, however, he was noticeably taller than the other boys his age and stronger than most. With a sword in his hand, he could disarm any of them. And yet, the Blackfish held back his praise. He insisted that Jon learn to joust. Crouching a lance properly and aiming the tip at straw turnstiles seemed useless to Jon.

"What good is charging with an eight foot lance over anywhere but flat ground?" he asked aloud in the privacy of the godswood.

He thought that if he were surrounded by foes in a real battle, a sword or even an axe would be the fitting choice of arms. _How is any knight supposed to ride through a forest with a lance out in front of him, let alone engage in a fight?_

No matter how often he felled an opponent with a blunted sword in his hand and his boots in the mud, Jon would be teased for not riding like a proper southern knight. He recalled the words of the Blackfish, _"S__traight back. Knees steady."_

_Riding a forest trail like that is a quick way to find yourself bumped out of the saddle._

The squires would often jape, "Do you not have mounts in the North, Jon Snow?"

"Yes they do," other boys would recite, "but only bears and goats and mammoths!"

Jon Snow heard the ring of the supper bell and a cook's shouts emanating from the center of the castle. _Just a blind guess, he'll be serving a dish with riverfish in it._

* * *

Jon spent two years training and squiring without his lords having true need of him.

On the day Ser Brynden Tully rafted down the Red Fork, off to settle some dispute in the Vale, Ser Edmure visibly relaxed. At first, Jon Snow found the young Tully to be frosty, but his demeanor towards Jon had been softening by increments. The heir of Riverrun appeared to be a young man more at ease with japes and kindness than strict adherence to station.

Without the need to be mindful of his uncle, Edmure made significant leap in his treatment of Jon.

"Jon Snow, ever so glum. How about some ale and a tale 'fore retiring for the night?"

Jon settled himself opposite Edmure in the empty hall of Riverrun. The servants were meticulous about keeping the torches and candles lit, and even when only two men sat alone, the entire hall was brightly lit.

"I'd be glad for the ale, my lord. As for the tale, what sort of story did you have in mind?"

"Oh, I have only the ale," Ser Edmure announced cheerfully. "I mean to trade a mug of it for _your_ tale."

"My lord, I can think of a few from the North, either from the long history of Winterfell or, perhaps, from beyond the Wall?"

The auburn haired knight smiled and shrugged.

Jon began, "Do you know how the Night's Watch can tell a snow bear from a bear covered in snow?"

Before Edmure could respond, the doors of the hall slammed open. Two Tully guards carried a bloody man into the hall and set him on top the nearest table. Even at a distance, he smelled of horse dung and vomit.

"Fetch the maester!" shouted Long Lew, and one of the six others sprinted from the hall.

"What happened?" asked Tully.

"My lord, this farmer just arrived, raving about outlaws some number of leagues southwest of here. His donkey was nearly dead of exhaustion when he reached the gates. The animal bled from all four hooves and his hide from the farmer's cane."

The distraught man didn't stop his mad ranting even when offered ale from Ser Edmure's own cup. Jon couldn't make sense of the words.

Lew said, "From what I can best gather, Ser Edmure, mounted outlaws surrounded his farmhouse. They killed his wife and his good-brother's children or his children and his brother's wife; I cannot be sure. This man was returning from the fields when he saw it. He rode to a nearby hamlet for help, only to find it burned. At some point, a fit of madness caught him and he rode here without pause for a day and a half. Full run, by the look of man and mount."

"By the sight of his breeches, I doubt he stopped even to piss," observed Edmure.

The grey-robed Maester Vyman arrived a short while later. He pronounced that the man would live and only needed time to rest.

* * *

In the morning, Jon found the farmer shivering in the main hall, surrounded by Edmure and the knights in Riverrun's service. Snow seated himself at the end of the table and watched.

Ser Tristan Ryger said, "We must send a raven to the Eyrie. Ser Brynden must needs receive word of this."

"If he's even reach there yet, lad," countered Desmond Grell. "Ser Edmure, what does your father think of this?"

Lord Hoster Tully had been ill since before Jon arrived in Riverrun. Some days, his men would help him descend from his chambers and to the high seat, but more often than not he stayed in his bed or sat out on the wide balcony off his solar.

"Lannisters,' he says," spit Edmure. In Riverrun, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock were said to be at fault for all manner of evil. Whether an oxcart or a miller's daughter went missing, the principal culprit remained the same.

"Their beasts grow restless in peace-time, my lord," the squat, red-haired Ser Marq Piper added. He was one of the young knights in Edmure's close circle. "Lord Tywin, no doubt, prefers them to raid Tully lands than his own."

Edmure Tully announced, "Take the day to ready our provisions. A lord who cannot protect his people is no lord at all. I will write to my uncle and alert my father. At dawn on the morrow, we ride south!"

* * *

At first light, thirty knights, twenty mounted men-at-arms, and two-and-twenty squires gathered from Riverrun. Edmure Tully raised a fist in the air when he led the riders across the drawbridge. The castle erupted in shouts and cheers at the sight of the youthful heir riding out to rid the lands of brigands.

The injured farmer accompanied them on a Tully garron. He claimed to have seen thirty men raiding his farm. Edmure insisted that such outlaws rarely numbered more than ten and that the farmer was likely exaggerating the count by at least half.

Jon was now glad that Ser Brynden had refused him the chance to squire on the road and the river to the Vale. Ser Edmure claimed Jon as a second squire of sorts.

Jon Snow wore mail and boiled leather in Tully blue and red. He held the lead of a pack horse, which made his mare anxious. Jon, on the other hand, did not feel even a flicker of nerves. He was eager to see his first battle. With their superior numbers, arms, and skill, he didn't expect much of a fight when they finally caught their "prey," as Ser Edmure called the outlaws.

The party rode southwest along the River Road. Ser Desmond had advised that they ride further east before turning south, soon after departing Riverrun. He said, "Until we know the raiders' position, prudence dictates that we choose the more stealthy path."

Ser Edmure wouldn't hear of it. "Swift is wiser than stealth," he said, and then insisted that he didn't intend to allow the outlaws to flee back to the west.

Ser Marq, Ser Tristan, and the other young knights heartily agreed.

Jon was amazed by the lush green of the Riverlands, having spent little time beyond lands immediately surrounding the castle. The brightness of the grass and thickets proclaimed a fertility that was not found north of the Neck. Even in the height of summer, the lands near Winterfell were grey by comparison.

At midday, they stopped at a small village to water the horses, and to ask for word of the bandits. Jon unsaddled Ser Edmure's horse while Tully and some of his knights entered a wooden structure. It might've been an inn or simply the house of some commonfolk, Jon didn't know.

Edmure's other squire for this sally, Lewys Piper, walked over to their horses. He was short and round, with a mess of reddish-brown hair. His bowed legs were better suited for horseback than running. He brushed the horses of Ser Edmure and both squires, and Jon went off to fill two pails with water.

"We'll catch them up soon enough," said Lewys, as Jon placed the buckets of muddy water in front of the horses. "Do you think Ser Edmure and the knights will hang them or bring them back as prisoners?"

Piper did not wait for an answer, which was his custom when speaking to Jon. The taller, bastard squire was unsure if Lewys Piper meant it as a slight or if that was part of his natural manner. "He'll have to keep some of them in chains, if he wishes to prove them Lannister men."

"Lew, I don't know how Ser Edmure punishes outlaws. In my two-and-some years at Riverrun, I haven't seen him punish anyone without his lord father or Ser Brynden oversight. In the North, my father or his bannermen would probably send the bandits to the Night's Watch. No sense killing a fighting man when his sword could help defend the realm."

"I don't know which is worse: a hanging or freezing to death atop seven hundred feet of ice." He shrugged and stepped around to brush the horse's other side. "So, you're Lord Stark's bastard, then. I heard the rumor, but didn't know if to believe it."

"Aye, his bastard," Jon grumbled.

He'd trained with the Piper boy since Little Lew arrived in Riverrun half a year earlier. The younger squire spent more time as a pageboy running about the castle for his brother, Ser Marq, and for Ser Edmure, than he spent in the training yard.

Jon Snow looked up from tending the horses to see Ser Edmure and his knights leave the humble cottage. Most were obviously pleased by whatever their smallfolk council had yielded. Ser Desmond, conversely, looked as agitated as ever.

The party mounted up a short while later. Most of the knights had donned their plate before leaving Riverrun, but few wore their helms. Squires helped knights and men-at-arms don any armor they'd neglected earlier. Few men spoke, and none told Jon of their plans.

They left the village and rode westward. Ser Desmond Grell led a small vanguard. Ser Edmure rode at the head of the main party, and the squires followed a short distance behind him. Ser Tristan and three men-at-arms guarded the rear of the train. The rocky hills that served as the natural border between the Riverlands and the Westerlands had been within sight for much of the ride, but the band continued west until it was at the base of those hills. Once there, the men turned south.

Sunlight streaked through the trees above them as the sun's distance from the hill line waned, and Jon Snow watched for rocky inlets that might serve as suitable night-cover.

The foreriders found hoof tracks turning a corner. The grass was upturned and the knights were adamant that the horses had been galloping and in sufficient number to be the party's desired prey.

Ser Desmond said, "I can't be sure if the riders had been traveling north and turned east, or if they'd been coming from the east and turned south."

"Most like," said Tully, "Some of the riders doubled back over the tracks to hide their direction."

Knowing that their prey might have gone in either of the two directions, Ser Edmure halved the men. He declared that Ser Desmond would ride east with half the knights, squires, and men-at-arms. Meanwhile, he would lead the other force and follow the tracks to the south. Jon noticed that Tully chose mostly young knights, including Ser Marq and Ser Tristan to ride south with him.

Jon thought of when he first learned to track game through the Wolfswood from his father. Following a pack of elk in the snow or mud was easy enough, and they didn't disguise their path by treading over their prints more than once. He wondered if these tracks were actually from the outlaws, or if they'd only found the path of two different trains of commonfolk riding mules and draft horses in opposite directions.

Once organized, each band of knights rode off as fast as it could along its respective route. Without specific orders, Jon decided that he would follow Ser Edmure.

After two hours of hard riding, the horses were in a lather. Under the setting sun, none of the men could be certain about the hoof prints they followed. Nonetheless, Ser Edmure Tully seemed convinced that they were on the correct trail and that Ser Desmond's band was following the decoy.

The riders came to a shallow stream running down from the wooded hills. The tracks stopped in the water. Edmure told the men to halt and tend to their horses. He sent three scouts upstream and three downstream to find where the trail resumed.

As they had half a day earlier, the squires moved about hobbling, unsaddling, and watering the mounts. The sun set before either of the scouting parties returned. The knights grew restless and ate from their provisions. The men-at-arms and some of the squires sat around a fire throwing dice.

One of the outrider's horns sounded from the hills, and the camp was relieved to hear the sound. Whether these scouts had found the tracks or not would tell them to ride upstream or down on the morrow.

Ser Tristan Ryger stood up beside the fit pit and remarked, "You hear them? Bloody fools, riding so hard after dusk. A horse is like to break a leg and its rider's neck."

"That's more'n three, ser!" shouted a man-at-arms.

"Swords!" Ser Edmure ordered.

Most of the horses remained unsaddled and all were still tied to trees. Rising to their feet, the men drew their weapons. Jon looked about and saw that some in their small party had discarded their armor for the night.

Snow drew the longsword on his hip. He heard shrieks all around him. Standing near the bonfire, he couldn't see any of the attackers. Jon picked up his bucket, still half full after his mare's thirst. He upturned it over the flames, not knowing what else to do.

In the pale moonlight, Jon saw two horses charging at him. He couldn't see the riders, but knew enough to run. He dove behind a tree. A moment later, he looked up to see that one pursuer had broken off to bury his sword in someone else and the second had gotten his craggy blade stuck in the tree, inches above Jon's head.

He hadn't heard the strike; to Jon, the world around had gone silent. He scrambled from behind the tree and stabbed his sword into the man's horse between its ribs, all the way to the hilt. The blade snagged on bone, and Jon released his grip to duck a cut from the rider. The horse gave a kick and then collapsed.

Keeping his head down, Jon ran and scanned the ground for another sword. The bodies of dying men, both knights and outlaws, littered the small camp. Jon stumbled over one and fell face first onto the ground. He stole the dead man's weapon.

In an instant, Jon was horrified by the sight in front of him.

Crouching in the muck, Jon Snow was face to face with more than one dead man, but Edmure Tully was the only corpse that concerned him. He nearly retched at the bloody mess that was once his knight's face. Jon froze. Madness surrounded him, and he had not the first thought on what he should do.


	7. Brynden - A Letter

Ser Brynden Tully was pleased to step off the riverbarge. He'd spent the last six days slowly ambling down the Red Fork. The Blackfish watched as his party of twenty guards, six squires, and their horses, all disembarked on village docks, a short ways north of Darry.

He paid the boatman the second half of the silver owed and hollered for his men to saddle their horses and tie on their saddlebags.

The Blackfish had received a raven from Lord Jon Arryn bidding him to help settle a dispute between the Waynwoods and the Hunters at the request of Lord Nestor Royce, the High Steward of the Vale. Brynden had held the honored post of Knight of the Gate for thirteen years. At Ser Brynden's recommendation, the Lord of the Vale named Ser Donnel Waynwood to replace him.

Old Lord Hunter's two younger sons had taken umbrage at not being considered for the honor. According to Lord Arryn, that neither of the Hunters was, in truth, fit for such a role had apparently eluded them. His raven from King's Landing said the dispute had already come to blows with the Hunter brothers breaking Ser Donnel's nose, then bloodying each other. As Hand of the King, Lord Arryn insisted that he could not break away from his duties to arbitrate what he called, "the nonsense of two lads who think themselves men."

_Thus, that pleasant task falls to me_.

Surrounded by men pulling horses and boys carrying saddlebags, Tully saw a young man approach on horseback. The plowman of House Darry was prominently featured across his tunic.

"Ser Brynden Tully?" he asked. "I bring a message from your nephew, Ser Edmure, by way of Lord Royce."

They stepped away from the commotion on the docks, and the messenger continued, "Lord Raymun Darry received the relayed letter. I was told to wait at these docks until I saw the Tully banner or your black trout. Ser, a band of brigands raided two towns, mayhaps more by now, and murdered a number of peasants. Valiant Edmure rode out to find them."

Brynden took the unsealed letter from the other man's hand. It confirmed everything he said. The letter included the barest information on where the raiders were and how they were equipped. The Blackfish worried that his nephew would charge into a fight without adequate scouting or planning. _The brave fool._

"The Hunters' squabbles will have to wait. I must return at once. When did the raven arrive?"

"Only yesterday."

The parchment stated that the razed town was close to Riverrun and that Edmure, "expected to meet the outlaws the following morning or two days at most". Against the Red Fork's current, Ser Brynden had little hope of arriving in time to be of any use.

Still, he bought passage for himself alone in a narrow skiff with a furled sail and twelve oars, and Brynden set out in a matter of minutes. The Blackfish would make far better time in this boat, rather than the flat-bellied barge he'd arrived on. His men, though, would return on the same riverboat they just unloaded.

* * *

Outlaws were rare enough in recent years, and Brynden had never heard of them venturing so close to Riverrun. _Either they are bold and cunning, or utterly stupid._

As the oars churned the water, he thought on the trouble facing the Tullys:

_Could this be some trap to lure our men out of Riverrun? Is it by coincidence alone that the attack occurred after I left, or was that the brigands' intent? A plan such as this is one possible mode of killing the heir of Riverrun. But, who would benefit?_

_Could this be an act of Tywin Lannister? _

_We Tullys have held the Riverlands since Aegon burned Harren the Black. Now more than ever, we have powerful allies. My nieces' lord husbands and their bannermen would overwhelm the full force of the Westerlands. With Lysa's husband as Hand of the King, Lord Tywin would risk the might of the Iron Throne. The man is brutal, but never foolish._

_No, the Lannisters can't be blamed. And such a gamble would be for naught, the lordship would pass to. . ._

_One of Lord Hoster's grandsons._

_Could the Starks have plotted such a scheme? Might my sweet Catelyn have sent Jon Snow as her catspaw? Has she grown mad?_

_Her sister's years as Lady Arryn certainly haven't been kind to Lysa. Seeing her during only the seldom visits she made to the Eyrie was enough for me to understand how sickeningly attached she's become to that boy of hers._

_How many years has it been since I last saw Cat? Has she likewise formed such a bond to her younger son? She's always been stronger than Lysa, but. . ._

_I refuse to believe it. Catelyn would never betray her family._

Ser Brynden swept such dark thoughts from his mind. However, he had difficulty thinking of anyone else who might wish to plot against Edmure Tully.

"They may yet prove to be no more than they appear, reckless outlaws," he reminded himself.

* * *

The skiff drew in its oars and coasted through the lichen-covered Water Gate of Riverrun. As soon as Brynden's boots touched the damp, stone edge of the landing, he ran to find someone who knew more about the events of the last few days.

He saw his brother's grey-haired, grey-skinned steward hurrying into the main keep. Brynden yelled after the man, but Utherydes Wayn didn't hear him.

He followed into the keep and toward the noise of the second floor meeting hall. The room was swelteringly hot, and Brynden could see it had been turned into a disheveled infirmary. He saw Ser Robin Ryger restraining a soldier while the Maester Vyman changed bandages and poured boiled wine on the young man's forearm.

The captain of the guard rose to his feet at the sight of the Blackfish.

"Ser Robin," Brynden addressed, "what in the name of the Seven happened?! Where is Edmure?"

"Best we speak in private," Ryger said.

He and Brynden left the room. They walked down the corridor and halfway up the stairs to the next landing. Ryger sat straight down on the sandstone steps and bid Ser Brynden to do the same. The echoes of the shouts from the meeting hall could still be heard.

Ser Robin began by telling Brynden about how Edmure led the hunt and soon after divided the men to follow two trails. He said, "I was with Ser Desmond's party when two of Ser Edmure's scouts, they and their horses covered in dried blood, caught up with us.

"He'd sent two parties of scouts in opposite directions along a stream, while the rest of the men set camp. Finding no tracks, the downstream scouts returned to camp late that night. By then, the skirmish was already lost. Our men and outlaws laid dead in the mud. The three scouts had to flee the remaining outlaws, and lost one more man in the escape.

"I am sorry, ser. . ." Ryger hesitated. "They say of Edmure's party . . . none but those two outriders survived."

The old captain dipped his chin and rubbed his bald head.

"No," Brynden protested. "That cannot be true. What of the campsite? And. . . who are those wounded men being tended? I just saw an infirmary full of them, Robin. Surely they didn't stab themselves while trying to cut their meat at a funeral supper!"

Ryger explained, "Those are men from _Ser Desmond's_ half. The sun was up before the pair of scouts found us. We tracked the outlaws to a thatched shelter in the hills. Did for every one of them. Even found three o' ours. . . dead and tortured."

Brynden's face paled. Even on the Trident, his thoughts of Edmure's death were only worries. Yet, he knew the ways of rogue riders. They would not leave any alive to point a finger. _A man facing the hangman is not like to hesitate in finishing a bloodied foe._

"After we killed the bandits, ser, I inspected the site myself. None of ours escaped. The only tracks we found were from Edmure's scouts or led into the hills and the bandits' camp. All of the knights, squires, and-"

Ser Robin stopped, then asked, "Are you certain you wish to hear this? You'll find no comfort in my words."

The Blackfish nodded.

"These _. . . _brigands," the captain spat, "scum that they were, stripped every man of weapons and armor before throwing them face-first into a pyre. The vicious cunts."

That was not the first time Brynden had heard of the tactic. "That is what such men do," said Tully. "It's an agreement among them, of sorts. If an outlaw's corpse is recognized, someone may take revenge on his kin. Burning the face off their dead prevents that. But to disfigure _our dead__? _That could be for naught but their own amusement."

* * *

Lord Hoster Tully was despondent. He left his quarters seldom enough _before_ his son's death that the Blackfish worried about him. After it, he outright refused. When Brynden sat with him, Hoster's words made little sense. Every statement seemed strung together from five and more unrelated thoughts. Yet still, through grief, sickness, and this madness, Hoster was able to convey his anger at his brother for not marrying that Redwyne girl a lifetime ago. It was the only utterance Brynden could make sense of.

"Perhaps you are right about a marriage, my lord," he admitted. "If my fears are true, we cannot let Riverrun fall to the next in line."

Lord Tully made no sign of understanding his younger brother's words.

"A son of mine would carry the Tully name. That may be enough to hold the castle, even if the king's law holds that a lord's daughter comes before his nephew."

* * *

End Notes: Thanks to everyone who's been reading and reviewing! I know this is a quick chapter, and I'll try to have the next one up this weekend. Cheers!


	8. Jon - A Flight

"Kahh-togh," Jon heard as Edmure coughed up a mouthful of blood. _He lives._

"I'll return, my lord!"

On instinct alone, Jon Snow sprinted for the horses. He grinned like a fool when he saw that the three he'd hobbled remained unharmed. _Too valuable to slaughter_. He reached for the bridal of Edmure's courser. The strongest of the three, it retreated from Jon's touch, trying to pull free of the lead. Having no time to settle a frantic horse, he circled around to his mare.

"Easy, girl," Jon beckoned. He touched her neck and she seemed to know just what he needed. The horse stepped closer, giving Jon enough slack to untie her. Rather than flee as the other horse would have, his mare followed Jon. With the reins in hand, Jon ran her to a bloody Edmure.

"Squire! To me!"

Jon turned to see five of his fellows, rank and title no longer important, next to the ashes of the firepit. They'd formed a circle, each man facing out and ready for the attackers. Four of them had swords and the fifth only a dirk, but all five blades were dark with blood.

Jon Snow shook his head and didn't look back. He gave the bridal a tug and his mare complied, going to her knees. He slung Edmure across her and held him steady as she rose to her feet, awkward from the weight. Jon vaulted up on the horse's bare back. He gripped his mare's mane and the back of Edmure's soaked surcoat. He held tight with his knees and thighs as best he could.

Without instruction, the horse broke into a sprint. _Away from the camp, girl. Just away_.

Jon heard a man shout when he passed, but didn't turn back. He knew that if the outlaws followed him, he couldn't outrun them for long, and he surely couldn't fight them off.

"To the hills and the trees," Jon said to himself.

Like a fox or a squirrel caught out in the open, the cover of rocks and trees felt safe to Jon. He pulled the mare's mane and shifted his weight forward, and she continued straight for the hills. When they reached the trees, Jon looked back; he didn't see or hear any of the bandits giving chase. Wagering that the outlaws had attacked the Tully men with their full strength and left no men at the tree line, Jon steered his mare into the stream and up into the hills.

The stream bed provided sure enough footing for the horse to walk, even with the weight of two men on her back. They would make better time on solid ground, but in the absence of a road or trail, the stream was the only unimpeded route. In the darkness, Jon rode until the stream met the narrow waterfall which fed it. He stopped briefly to let his mare drink. He hauled Ser Edmure off of the horse and set him down on the water's edge. Jon ripped a length of cloth from Edmure's tunic and used it to wash the blood from his face.

"My lord, can you hear me?"

"What. . . what has happened? Who are . . . you?"

"Jon Snow, ser. Your squire. Drink, and gather your strength. We've not seen the end of tonight's ride."

"I. . . I thought that I was dead. Killed in. . . that. Ambush, I mean. Snow. . . if you get me back to Riverrun with my life, by the Seven I'll have you knighted."

Jon laughed softly at that. "You're out of sorts. I'm only four-and-ten, and besides, the bandits may yet track us. The sight of Riverrun alone will be reward enough. . . that, and perhaps an entire cask of ale."

Edmure's laugh turned into yet another bloody cough.

"Thank the gods," Jon whispered, as he saw an old hunter's path near the stream. Though barely wide enough for a single horse, it looked well travelled.

Laying across the horse had done Edmure's wounds no favors; he might have even cracked a rib or two during their flight from the camp. Tully was too weak to ride pillion under his own strength, so Jon used a scrap of tunic cloth to bind Edmure's hands. He seated Edmure behind him and looped his knight's arms over one shoulder and across his chest. They rode slowly through the winding, unfamiliar path.

Before long, Jon realized why the trail looked well worn. Not far from the waterfall, the trail branched out to the right. Jon could smell the smoke of a campfire, though he couldn't see anyone.

"Their encampment," Jon said to his mare and the unconscious knight.

_The three men in the upstream scouting party may yet live._

Jon thought better than to chance a closer look and didn't veer toward the smoke. Jon Snow told himself that his duty was to Ser Edmure's safety. He wondered, though, if cowardice was his guide, rather than duty. At a slow, yet steady pace they continued through the night.

* * *

Sunrise came as a relief. It meant that Jon and Edmure had survived the night and they could more easily set their baring.

"Edmure, wake up," Jon said shaking the arms around his chest.

He heard only a moan in response.

"Ser Edmure, we need to get you to a maester, or an innkeep at the least. I don't know these lands. Would it be best to continue westward or perhaps to turn north? Where's the nearest castle or town?"

"No. . ."

"My lord?"

"No castles. No towns. . . the hills, Lannister lands. I'll not . . . not be taken hostage."

Jon shook his head in frustration. "Ser, you are the heir to Riverrun. Surely the Lannisters wouldn't dare harm you. They'll see you returned safely-"

"No! They sent the brig. . . brigands. _Lannister_ men. You are a squire. I am . . . Edmure. . . your knight!"

Jon was wary of listening to the orders of a severely wounded man, but he would not fail in his duty. _Besides, I know little of the paramount house in the West_, he reminded himself. _Might be they are as vile as the Tullys make them out to be._ Jon would not take that chance, and he wouldn't disobey Ser Edmure.

"Remember. . . Jon Snow. . . knighting."

Edmure Tully drifted in and out of sleep. Jon could feel the cold sweat soak through his jerkin at the shoulder.

"East is back to the outlaws," Jon said. "West and south are away from Riverrun. When we left the castle, we rode southwest for most of a day. At our pace through the hills, a day of riding north then a day to the east should bring us close enough."

Neither Edmure nor the mare replied.

"Oh, but the night," he corrected himself. "A plodding night's ride west means an extra half day eastward."

Doing his best to gauge his bearing, Jon shielded his eyes and looked up at the sun streaking through the trees. The trail led further west, with no signs that it would turn north or even cross a northward trail.

Without a path, Jon would need to lead the horse by the reins. He unbound Edmure's arms, dismounted, and then re-tied them around the mare's neck.

As they made way, he thought about the Wolfswood beyond Winterfell. "Steady, girl. This ground is far more rocky, which makes for room between the trunks and branches. But, if you or I break an ankle who knows if we'll ever find our way out."

The mare gave a snort, and they continued on.

They trekked north all day and made camp at night fall. Jon found nowhere to comfortably lay Ser Edmure. He feared for the man's health. Edmure had spent few hours awake since they set out the previous night. Jon sat against a tree to stand guard.

In the dark, Jon Snow smiled as he recalled leaving Winterfell:

* * *

Dozens of faces had watched as he said his goodbyes; most of whom gave Jon a smile, a nod, or a scowl. Even in his last moments truly living in Winterfell, he was still Lord Eddard's bastard. The mix of scorn and respect was to be expected. The few that Jon loved gave him a send off that any son or brother could be proud of.

That day, the sun was hidden behind cloud-cover and a wind from the east made the morning colder any other that month.

Bran, as eager and impatient as ever, was the first to say his farewell. He'd begged his mother for permission to accompany Jon to Riverrun. In Bran's mind, his brother was off to tilt with the Dragonknight or to follow Barristan the Bold against the Ninepenny Kings.

"Jon, I'm sorry of what I said at dinner," Bran said.

During the night before Jon was to depart, Bran had made a final, exasperated effort to convince his parents to allow him to squire alongside his older brother. When Lady Catelyn said her final word on the matter, Bran declared that he had more of a right to go than even Jon did, since Jon was only a Stark bastard and not even half Tully. Ashamed at his outburst, Bran made no further pleas.

"I'll miss you is all, Jon, and I want to be a knight too. I could even be your squire! When you get to Riverrun, ask Uncle Blackfish if you can have a squire. You'll choose me if you can have one -a squire- won't you? I'll be brave and ride beside you, I swear it!"

Jon bent down and told his little brother that he did not think that he would be allowed a squire until he was a knight himself, which would not be for many years. But Jon promised the sprite of a boy that the position was his and that he could never chose another to replace him.

Sansa had been the next to say goodbye. She gave her half-brother a curtsey. _More polished than any other Northern girl her age._ Sansa bid Jon a safe journey and the Warrior's guidance for his training. When she moved to turn back to her family, Jon stepped forward and embraced her. His lady sister was ever courteous before the eyes of the castle, but Jon was having none of it. Foremost, this was _his_ farewell. If he felt so inclined, he would embarrass his proper sister. He'd never felt bold in front of so many onlookers. Showing a blush of his own, he withdrew from Sansa and only then offered her a formal bow.

Arya's eyes followed her sister's face before turning to Jon. She gave him a wolfish grin, clearly pleased by Sansa's abraded expression. Arya ran at her brother and leapt to him with as much momentum as she could muster. Jon caught her in his arms and held her tight. Her feet dangled a foot from the ground, and she gave his knee a kick.

"Are you sure you want to go?" she whispered. "It's not too late, you can turn back, go against your choice. Mother can write to Riverrun. . . maybe you could stay. . ."

Arya held tighter. He felt her warm tears on his skin.

"I will miss you more than I could say, little sister. I will write to you every month, and I'll watch for your letters. Will you write to me?" Jon felt her nod. "I won't be here, but I will always be your brother. Might be that in a year your mother will want you to see where she spent her girlhood years, to see your grandfather. Also, when the time comes, I'll return to the North. This isn't forever, little sister."

Arya smiled and loosened her grip enough to lean her head back and look Jon in the eye, "She wrote to me again. _Our friend_, you know. . . her. She sent a raven. . ."

Jon gave her a look of mock confusion, as if he did not have the slightest inkling to whom she referred.

"Well, if you don't even remember her, then I 'spose that I should just keep the part she wrote to you. . ."

Jon let out a boyish chuckle, and Arya tucked a tightly wound scroll into the collar of his leather jerkin. When he set her on her feet, she looked up at him with watery eyes and gave him the faintest of whispers, "I'll miss you."

Jon swallowed the lump in his throat and walked towards the horses. Robb and their father were waiting for him. Robb gave his brother a fierce hug.

"Take care of the little ones, Stark."

"Show those Riverlanders how we fight in the North, Snow," Robb said with a snort. "The next time I see you, I'll be calling you something else. Have you settled on one yet?"

Jon looked at his feet and then shook his head.

"You could take the name _Sleet._ As in, not quite snow. Or if you wanted to honor Riverrun, you could be Ser Jon _Ice-Fishing._ Or-"

"That's quite enough, Robb," said Ned Stark. "Jon has five, or perhaps eight years, to chose. Though I suppose he won't need more than _four _to best those two ideas."

Jon responded with a "har, har."

"I believe you will do well for yourself, son. I am certain you will make us all proud. Mind your unc- Mind Ser Brynden and the castle's master-at-arms. In truth, I cannot be sure of the welcome that you'll receive, so perform the duties they require and be patient. Robb and I will find a forest holdfast fit for a knight." Ned said with a wide smile, "As long as you don't win a tourney when you first arrive, we'll ready the holdfast long before you return."

Jon felt his father pull him into a strong embrace and gave him a rough clap on his back.

He mounted his black mare and gave one final look about the castle. His glance met Lady Stark across the courtyard. Jon paused before mouthing, "Thank you," to her. She shut tight her eyes and tucked her chin to her chest. He supposed that the movement was a crude nod, and as warm a _fare-thee-well _as he could expect from the woman. Any past animosity mattered not. Jon was off on a great adventure. A nobler journey than he might have ever allowed himself to dream of. He would miss his home, his family. Rickon would never remember that Jon had ever lived within the same walls. But he knew that he would have years to let his youngest brother know him. All the better that he would do so as a knight rather than a nameless bastard.

* * *

In the morning, Jon awoke realizing that he'd fallen asleep, most like only a short while after he began his watch. The mare looked to be in better spirits after a full night's rest. Edmure was quite the opposite.

After a night and a day of travel, Jon had yet to examine Tully's wounds. He pulled the blue and red tunic over his knight's head. He needed to sit Edmure against a tree to unfasten his armor. After removing the plate and mail, and then the leather beneath, Jon saw the bloody mess. Edmure only moaned as Jon Snow turned him as gently as he could. The reason for the bloody coughs was apparent. Ser Edmure's entire left side bore a bruise so dark, it looked nearly black. By comparison, the scabbed slash across his chest looked mild. With his hand, Jon traced the bones on Edmure's torso and learned that his assumption of cracked ribs was correct. Two were broken for certain, and three more were definitely tender and quite possibly cracked as well.

"Gods, what am I to do with you? Blood looks to be pooling around those ribs. Do I make a small cut and let it drain out? Or do I want to keep in any blood you have left?" Jon was startled when he saw Edmure open his eyes. "Ser?"

"Take me to an inn or toss. . . toss me to the foot of a . . . castle gate. The Others can take those bloody lions. . . heh, I suppose. . . you might style me the _Redfish_ now. They can have. . . their ransom. Let them take me prisoner, so long as . . . milk of the poppy."

_Would that I could, the sun has set for good on that choice._

"We are a day from that westward trail. I wouldn't know where to find an inn or a castle, my lord."

"Then. . . what, Jon Snow?"

"Our pace yesterday was slower than I'd hoped. I fear we have another half a day's hike north, then two, mayhaps, three days east. But. . . we have no food. I have no bow to hunt even if we happen upon some game. At least we're lost in the hills of the Westerlands and not the mountains of Dorne; we have no want of moving water. Ser, if we move quickly, we can reach Riverrun on the third day."

"So be it. What. . . good is being the son of a lord, when. . . when you're lost in the wood?"

Jon was glad to see him smile, but loath to watch blood accompany his laugh.

The ragged party set out to the north. It was still morning when Jon found a bush with half a hand of berries. He gave them to Edmure, only to see them retched back up a few minutes later. Jon chewed on some leaves, hoping to fool his aching stomach.

At midday, Jon found their first glimmer of hope. "Ser," he said shaking Edmure. "There! That rushing water, is it just another stream of is it the beginnings of the Tumblestone?"

Ser Edmure let out a wordless moan.

Jon Snow decided to follow the water more out of weary hope than any rational appraisal.

The descent was more treacherous than the previous day's trek had been. Along a cliff, Ser Edmure's limp body slid from the mare's back and almost took the horse over the side. Fortunately, the surefooted beast kept her balance and dragged Edmure until Jon found room to maneuver. With the knight secured more tightly than before, they reached smoother terrain by night fall.

* * *

Soiled and exhausted, the pair and their horse followed the river the next morning. Jon led the horse and the _cargo_ down the last of the hills.

In the distance, Jon saw a boy standing on a small poleboat. He waved at the lad, no older than Bran, who turned down river without so much as a nod.

Two miles further, four men met Jon with pitchforks and wooden spears.

"Good men, we're not from any band of outlaws-"

"Then, who are ye? What's yer business?" one of them interrupted.

"Seeing the wounded heir of Riverrun back home."


	9. Brynden - A Return

"Ser! Blac- Ser Brynden, come quick!" shouted a frantic man-at-arms. The weathered knight ignored the man's tone and ran after him.

They both bounded up the switch-back steps to the top of Riverrun's sandstone wall overlooking the dry entrance to the castle. He could discern figures walking toward the gate, but had to raise his hand to shield the sun before he could see them fully.

Two men carried a third with an arm across each of their shoulders. They were treading carefully on the muddy path connecting the castle to the smallfolk docks, just outside the walls. A barefoot boy followed them using an oar as a walking stick and leading a jet-black horse.

"Ser! Don't you see?"

The Blackfish thought to himself, _Already, enough poor to fill a village have come seeking a healer, protection, or justice for their dead kin; would that we could help all of them. Four more are not likely to improve matters_.

The guards jerked up the iron portcullis. Men and boys swarmed around the bloody invalid.

Brynden descended the stairs and heard the raucous shouts. The crowd parted to make way for the Blackfish.

"Edmure?!" He clutched the filthy man on either side of his head. Turning the marred face to his, Brynden saw a half grin.

"Please, ser. We mus' take him to Maester Vyman," one of the men said.

Brynden nodded and released his nephew. He turned to look for the two who'd carried Edmure. He heard cursing and saw the crowd shoving the younger of the pair. Before the Blackfish could intervene, he realized that the men were grabbing at the escort in a _joyous_ tussle. The shouts were not of anger, but of euphoric disbelief.

Ser Brynden called through the fray, "Bring him here! I'll see the man who returned my nephew from the dead!"

The men gave the disheveled savior one last shove towards the Blackfish. The young man stopped in front of him.

"Your squire, ser," he said, staring at the ground. "Jon Snow. Ser Edmure will need tending to, but he survived the ambush and our flight through the hills."

The Blackfish laughed to himself. _Jon Snow, the bastard squire from the North_.

* * *

"Uncle?"

Ser Brynden stepped beside the bed. He put a firm hand on Edmure's shoulder when the younger Tully tried to raise himself to his elbows. Edmure slumped back down.

"You've been sleeping fitfully going on six days and counting. Drinking heavily of the milk of the poppy and waking for few hours these last days. The maester drained the swelling on your side, but he thinks you should not move, lest you do any further harm."

"I suppose I look a right awful mess." Edmure's voice sounded weak and nasal.

In addition to his ribs, Edmure's nose was severely broken. During the poppy induced slumber, Maester Vyman had padded a wooden mallet with cloth and hammered the nose back toward the center of Edmure Tully's face, granting him some hope of breathing through it again. Thin scrapes and slashes littered his chest and arms. Those had closed on their own, needing only a poultice.

"Rest. In a few hours, I will bring your father, after the maester has a chance to check your wounds."

When he returned with Lord Hoster, Brynden saw Edmure's appearance had improved considerably. He suspected that making the _son_ look presentable was more for the _father's_ wellbeing.

Six days earlier, the Blackfish had first told Lord Hoster of his son's return. The old man had cried for hours. Since seeing Edmure unconscious but alive, Hoster Tully slowly shifted back to who he'd been before his son's false death. He still seemed exceptionally tired, but he regained his coherency.

"Oh, my son. . ."

Brynden had to restrain his brother from embracing Edmure. A hug would not aid battered ribs.

"Father, I'm . . . better," Edmure offered. "Alive, but I fear less pretty than when last you saw me," he said with a tentative chuckle.

Edmure Tully did his best to tell his father of the battle. Brynden added the details he'd heard from the men and told Edmure of Ser Desmond Grell's chase and slaying of the outlaws.

Ser Edmure's memory of the journey home was inconsistent. Some events he retold vividly, but other parts were lost to him. What he did remember well, Ser Brynden noted, did not differ from Jon Snow's tale. After Edmure finished, Brynden added what the brown-haired squire had said, some of which turned Edmure's memory and he confirmed.

Hoster Tully looked torn between the urges to vehemently chastise his son and to fall on his knees and thank the Mother for her mercy.

"Nephew, when I thought you'd died, I had wondered about Snow's loyalty, about his intentions."

The sound that burst from deep in Edmure's chest was half laugh and half yelp of pain.

"Jon Snow? You suspected _Jon Snow the Somber Squire_ in some. . . murderous treachery?" Edmure suppressed his laugh and let out only a ragged breath. "Uncle, you know what they say of Starks."

"A Stark bastard," Brynden corrected. "And you know what they say of children born on the wrong side of the sheet."

"Take of -hmph!- . . . take of that what you will," his nephew struggled in reply. "The serious boy and that clever horse of his saved me from a silent raft down the Trident. He pulled me from that bloody fray, kept me from Lannister claws, and led me through those Western hills. I'm not sure he even ate for however many days it took."

Brynden turned to Hoster. "We should find some suitable reward for the lad."

Lord Tully nodded, marking the first memorable agreement between them in quite some time.

"A knighthood and a cask of ale."

"What?" Ser Brynden and Lord Hoster said in unison and then exchanged glances.

"A suitable reward," answered Edmure. "A knighthood and a cask of ale."

"Edmure, we shall find something more fitting," said the Blackfish.

"The boy is . . . what, four-and-ten? . . . And still a boy," declared the lord, suddenly incredulous. "A knighting reflects upon the knight and his lord's House. I'll not have one of mine anoint a . . . some green boy and reflect poorly on Riverrun."

"More poorly than a lord's heir breaking his word? Yes, Father. I made him a promise in the woods, I remember that much."

Lord Hoster still looked at his son grimly.

"Brother, my lord. Can you think of when we last had a tale such as this in our family? The story of the actions of that squire will be told and re-told a hundredfold within a fortnight. By next year, he'll have carried Edmure on his back and slayed a pack of lions.

"Raising him to a knight was always expected. In Cat's request that I return to Riverrun, perhaps she hoped that her father and her uncle would reconcile after these long years, but sweet Catelyn wanted me to take the boy to squire. Off her hands as well, I suppose, but to squire until he earned a _knighthood_. Now does not seem so ill a time to do it, nor undeserved."

Lord Hoster turned in his seat to look out the window and grasped his grey beard. Brynden didn't know if his elder brother was seeing the sense in what he'd heard or if he was steeling himself to argue further.

After another moment, Hoster simply shrugged and waved Brynden away so he could sit alone with his son.


	10. Jon & Arya - A Knighting

Introductory Note:

The single-line breaks mean what they always have in this story, a break in time or train of thought.

The double-line break indicates the change between Jon's and Arya's POV.

* * *

Jon Snow was in the stables brushing his black mare when Ser Brynden Tully found him.

"You're a brave lad and a diligent squire," the weathered knight said with a firm expression, but the hint of a smile in his eyes. "You're sharp when wielding a sword, with time and practice you could one day be better than most knights. You ride well, though you are barely passable with a lance under your arm." With that, a wry grin escaped the Blackfish's composure.

"When I first heard of Edmure's sally against the outlaws," he continued, "I let my worry drown my opinion of you. After two years as my squire, I should have known better," he admitted. "I sent two ravens to Winterfell. The first of which was a mercifully incorrect notice of your death. The second, I just came from sending. It told them of your deeds in my . . . _brave?_ . . . nephew's ill-planned pursuit. Maester Vyman said that you sent a raven to your family upon your return with Edmure."

"Aye, ser," answered Jon. "But. . . the maester insisted upon reading it first."

"Again, my apologies for my mistrust. To continue, the letter I just let fly will tell the Starks of your knighthood, in case any should wish to witness it. We'll plan for me to dub you once we receive word back."

"_You?_ Ser Brynden? You mean to knight me? And to do it _yourself?_"

"Surely even in the North, Ser Brynden the Blackfish of House Tully is an honorable name?"

"No, ser! That is to say, yes. It _is_ an honorable name, Ser Brynden."

The Blackfish laughed and assured Jon that he would be pleased to do it.

"Ser, about the knighting," Jon said. "I am aware of the ceremony and what knights do. But, I keep the old gods. When the time comes, would you allow me to sit my vigil and then to do the kneeling, all in the godswood not the sept?"

The Blackfish chuckled. "A man spends his vigil in naught but his small clothes. Sure that you won't fall ill from the chill?"

Next was Jon's turn to laugh.

"Ser, we're in the Riverlands, and it's still summer," he said, as if no further explanation was necessary. Still he japed, "In two years, I've never lit the brazier in my cell nor closed the port-hole window. I'm a Northman."

Jon won a smile in return.

Tully said to him, "In recent years, many knights choose not to sit a vigil at all. Others are knighted on the battlefield without any ceremony. The vigil and the knighting can both be in the godswood, just choose two separate spots and be sure to walk barefoot between them." Ser Brynden also insisted on a septon anointing Jon with the seven oils, saying it was only proper. He moved to leave through the wide, stable doors.

Jon was elated by the prospect of being knighted by no less a knight than the _Blackfish_, and by the praise he'd received. When he saw Brynden turn and walk back, however, Jon feared that the famed knight had thought better of everything he'd just said.

"Jon, these came for you last night. It was before Ser Edmure had awoken, and I am embarrassed to confess that I read them."

Brynden, for the first time in Jon's presence, looked sheepish.

He handed Jon two, folded squares of parchment and said, "It seems your half-siblings are quite fond of you and . . . best of luck with that Northern girl of yours."

* * *

_Jon,_

_For days we thought you were dead. Killed by outlaws. Do not ever do that to us again. Everyone cried til they thought their eyeballs would fall out. Even Father and Robb._

_I am so happy that you are not dead. Arya._

* * *

_Jon,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I experienced one remarkably dark day followed by the brightest of nights._

_One morning, I received Lady Arya's letter telling me of your death. Shortly after evenfall of the next day, another raven arrived from her stating that you had returned to Riverrun, alive. The sadness of the first was almost worth enduring for the joy of the second. Almost. Please send a raven to your sister soon. I will be glad to hold proof that you still live, in mine own hands._

_Quite relieved,_

_Lydrea Hornwood_

* * *

Maester Vyman had been uncommonly kind to Jon. For two years, he sent Jon's letters to Winterfell every month. He also kept private every message returned, before he had shown these two to Ser Brynden.

Robb wrote every month, on his training, gossip from the castle, and questions about Riverrun and the Tullys. Every few letters of his were accompanied by one from Bran. Though they both denied it, Jon was certain that his younger brother only wrote to him when ordered to by their older brother.

Arya was less reliable in sending ravens, but most of hers were rolled together with ones Lydrea had written to Jon. To keep up propriety and because Maester Vyman had no ravens trained for Castle Hornwood, Arya served as a way-stop of sorts.

At first, he'd thought Lydrea's letters icy, based on their formal tone. Slowly, he realized that that was simply how she was. Once he understood as much, Jon began to grasp the dry japes and warmth within her words. It felt entirely natural to divulge thoughts that he would never have said aloud. As someone who rarely sought a bond with anyone outside his family, Jon felt that, except for them, mayhaps no one knew him better than Lydrea.

* * *

When the day arrived, Jon Snow was surprised that Robb hadn't traveled to Riverrun alone, as his father's letter stated. Ned Stark wrote that he'd received a raven from King's Landing and could not leave Winterfell, but had offered kind words regarding his pride in Jon, who rolled the letter in cloth and tucked it away. Eddard said that Robb would arrive in his stead. Jon expected an escort, but watching from atop one of the Riverrun's three gates, he saw Arya and Lady Stark as well.

He ran down to greet them. Ser Rodrik and Hullen were the first to dismount. Winterfell's master-of-horse gave Jon a playful shove before helping Lady Catelyn from her chestnut rouncey. Rodrik Cassel clasped Jon on the shoulder and said, "Well done, boy. We've all heard the tale and mayhaps later you'll give me the bloody details over some Southron wine."

Jon smiled and thanked the man who had first trained him to use a sword. Still, he couldn't help himself from looking up at the guard post on the castle wall._ Lew Piper will never live to have a day such as this._ Jon's eyes found Robb assisting Arya. _His brother Marq didn't return either_. Jon pushed aside his feelings, grief tinged with guilt, and smiled at his brother and sister.

Jon embraced Robb and said, "Glad to see you, Stark. Though. . . I had not expected that you would bring along some vagrant you found on the road. Girl, Riverrun quarters no beggars. Off with you!"

Arya gave him a punch in his stomach.

"You should've heard her, Jon," Robb said. "From dawn to dusk, she pestered Father about coming. His resolve melted sooner than you'd guess."

"And, can _I_ tell him?" she asked. "I've already waited so, so long! And I didn't even put it in my letter."

Robb told Arya that she could, and Jon doubted that she would've held back even if Robb hadn't. She waved over a maid with a woven basket, the type that farmers used in the fields, slung over her back. She knelt next to Arya, who opened it and gently pushed aside furs. Jon thought that she might be looking for a cloak for him, until she stepped forward with a furry, white bundle.

The pup looked up at Jon with sleepy, red eyes. It yawned silently. Jon took the white pup and lifted him from under his fore legs.

"He's a direwolf," whispered Arya. She reached back into the basket and pulled two more pups out by the scruff of their necks. "Robb and Bran found them."

"They were newly born," began Robb. "Their mother dead by a stag's antler. I found five. Bran was already deciding which pup would go to which of us when Father said we could not keep them. A tear from Bran and a promise from me changed his mind. We were leaving with them when Bran heard a noise. Lucky that he did, because no one else heard it. He picked up that one and without a flicker of hesitation declared it yours."

Jon held up the direwolf pup, and the creature stared right back, as if sizing him up.

"His name is Ghost!"

"Shh, Arya," Robb said, cutting her off. "Jon will choose the name. He's white and never makes a sound, so that's why I thought of the name."

"Well, I like it and Bran likes it too," said Arya. She set the other two wolves down. They walked to Jon and sniffed his boots. "Bran hasn't thought of a name for his yet."

"I call mine, _Grey Wind_. Even now I know he'll be fast. Sansa chose _Lady_, which suits her I suppose. Arya named that one, _Nymeria,_ after the Rhoynish queen who conquered Dorne. Mother was _thrilled._ Rickon won't stop calling his, 'Shaggydog,' no matter how stupid it sounds."

Lady Catelyn stepped beside Robb.

Jon had not expected her either. Seeing this woman, he didn't know what greeting to expect. "Lady Stark," he said with a polite bow.

Her expression looked guarded, but tender. As a child he'd seen the look on occasion, though never directed at him. She shortened the space between them and gave his hand a brief squeeze.

"Thank you for Edmure."

"He seems himself again, my lady," Jon said. "Though, he isn't moving about on his own yet. If you wish to see him, he will be in his room, or, if not, he may have been helped to your lord father's solar."

As Catelyn walked away, it occurred to Jon that he might be far more familiar with Edmure than she was. Fourteen years had passed since she left for Winterfell, and Jon did not remember how long ago her last visit was. Edmure certainly had never visited Winterfell. Four-and-ten years ago, Catelyn Stark's brother had been only a boy of eleven.

Arya pulled Jon from his thoughts by his sleeve.

"Show me the castle."

* * *

With his wolf pup at his heels, Jon Snow left the barracks and started toward the godswood. Edmure had offered him better quarters after the rescue, though Jon politely refused, insisting that he was still a squire and that his cell in the barracks was fine enough.

_It's nearly sunset._

As he walked passed, Jon saw Robb waiting by the entrance to the main keep. "In need of some diversion, Stark?"

"That leads precisely to my question, Jon. I'm standing here, incapable of thinking up a proper name for you. Here you are, going to such lengths to _earn_ a name and your brother cannot even think of one to give you." Robb held his chin and pretended to be lost in thought.

As Jon stepped closer, his brother looked like a living shadow; the light from the doorway of the keep silhouetted him against the darkness of the courtyard.

"Oh, but you have," Jon said with a grin. "You shall see on the morrow."

Just then, Arya came striding up to them. In her arms, she held a pile of furs so large that she could barely see where she walked. The two grey pups tried to nip at a corner hanging free.

"And what, my lady, is all this?" asked Jon.

"I'm going to make camp in the godswood tonight. With you, of course."

"Firstly, I have to be alone, so you cannot come. Second, I'll be remaining awake all night_ in my small clothes_, which would be odd with my little sister. So, again, you cannot come. Third, a lady doesn't sleep on the ground when she has well-arranged quarters in her grandfather's castle. Arya Stark, you're a lady, not a hedge knight. Besides, your mother would be furious and blame me."

"What are you afraid of?" interrupted Robb. "Surely, carrying her brother to safety, while fending off a pride of lions, slaying a dragon, and throwing back the _Others_ is worth some leniency. I have heard that you did each of those feats in at least one wine-soaked tale."

"And you just stay in your breeches," added Arya. "What does how you cover _your butt_ tonight have to do with being a knight anyhow?"

Jon allowed her follow him into the middle of the godswood. He led Arya to a quietly trickling stream, and she laid out the furs on the grass beside it. Jon removed all but his breeches and sat himself against a mossy rock. He worried that their wolves might run off into the darkness, but Nymeria curled herself into Arya's embrace and Jon's pup sat on his hind legs beside him.

"Tell me what it was like, the battle. Did you really kill anyone?"

He thought for a moment, then replied, "It was over so quickly. That's what I remember most, the pace of it. In Old Nan's stories, battles rage and ebb for hours, even days. At the campsite? It felt no longer than it takes to trip over your feet. One moment I am ducking a sword, a breath later I found your uncle, and a breath after that we were fleeing into the hills."

Arya yawned before releasing a deep breath. "Sounds exciting."

"No, not exciting, little sister," he whispered. "Quick as it was, I hope you never have to see anything like it."

Arya said nothing more. Jon could hear her breathing slow. He looked down to see that Ghost was resting his head on Jon's hip. In the moonlight, Jon could see the pup's eyelids slowly closing, and placed a hand on the direwolf's back.

"I ran when I could have fought, Ghost. Might be I could've helped those five by the fire pit. They might have lived. I never wanted them to die, I had no time, and the outlaws were too many. Am I a craven?"

The drowsy wolf offered no opinion on the matter.

"Craven or not, they're calling me a hero for saving one and leaving five, perhaps more, to be killed."

Jon pet his wolf's fur until those red eyes stayed closed.

He tilted his head back, resting it against the boulder. Jon Snow watched the stars through the canopy and thought of home until dawn.

* * *

Arya:

* * *

Arya Stark awoke to Nymeria licking her face.

"Enough, I'm up."

She looked over and saw that Jon hadn't moved from his boulder. The rising sun cast its glow on the Southern forest and half the sky glowed orange, like the burning embers at the bottom of a dying fire.

Arya wasn't sure if her brother looked happy or sad. Either way, he looked . . . wise. As if the mossy rock was the back of a throne, and he was resting his hands on its carved arms, rather than his knees.

"You look wise like that," she told him.

He chuckled. "Well, little sister, I don't feel very _wise _this morning. Look at me and ask yourself what's missing."

She guessed, "A knight needs a sword."

Jon shook his head.

"A knight needs a horse?"

He shook his head again and told her to really look.

"You're not yet dressed, but-"

Jon grinned and nodded. "I have a favor to ask. The walk from the vigil to the knighting is all part of the ceremony, and how would I look today if went about the castle in a dirty tunic and the breeches I wore all night?

"After you arrived yesterday," he said, "I realized that I needed a change to my cloak. An important change, little sister. I asked two maids, both good seamstresses, for their help. They assured me that they'd have my new cloak ready. Can you ask around for either Mylessa or Tansy? Oh, and could you bring me clean breeches and a doublet? Black or grey'll be fine."

Arya rolled her eyes at him.

Jon added, "Please, my ever so brave and clever sister."

* * *

She found her mother in the feasting hall and asked after the maids.

"I fear I do not know either of them," Catelyn answered. "But you, little lady, are in dire need of a bath."

Arya's grand-uncle scratched his close-cropped, grey-streaked beard and answered her question in his hoarse, but gentle voice, "You'll find the sewing room on the third floor of the keep. The maids' quarters are at the bottom of the corner tower, that direction." He pointed the way, then put both hands on his hips. He furrowed his wrinkled brow, playing at seriousness. "And, why might I ask, do you have need of them?"

"It's a secret," she replied with a grin.

Arya turned to leave, then remembered to ask, "And, which way is the barracks?"

"The knights, guards, and the squires stay in the corner tower off that way, but-" He looked truly curious, but Arya didn't wait for him to ask her again what she was up to.

Heading for the doorway, she hollared back to him, _"A secret,_ Ser Uncle Blackfish."

Neither of the maids she needed were in their quarters. Next, she tried the barracks tower.

At the entrance, two men stopped her.

"I need to get in there," she declared, impatient at being deterred.

"And who might you be?" asked the first guard. "A little maid, mayhaps?"

"Too small to be a maid," his fellow jested. "It would take her a moon's turn to finish cleaning anything with those skinny arms. Anyhow, the cells and clothes were cleaned two days-"

"I'm not a maid!"

They nearly fell over each other laughing. Arya didn't know if they were knights or men-at-arms or who they were, but she didn't like them.

"Not like that! You . . . arse-river-scums! I'm Arya-"

"Arya, then," one interrupted. "If you're looking for a tumble, seek cock elsewhere, us two prefer maidens."

She looked around to see that a dozen or more guards were watching the commotion. She froze for a moment, her anger slipping into embarrassment.

A burly captain pushed his way out of the entrance. He grabbed one of the two men mocking her by the collar and lifted him off the ground.

"That is Arya Stark, you toads! Lord Tully's grand-daughter!"

Embarrassment abated in her, and she could see it flooding over the guards.

They mumbled frantic apologies, but she only looked at the tall captain. He wore a greying beard, and the sun reflected off his bald head. His freckled skin crinkled like worn leather around his eyes, and his face changed from furious to fatherly in an instant.

"My lady, what do you require? Are you lost?"

She told him she needed to find her brother's room. He led her up the stairs, which bent like a triangle at every landing. Jon's room was smaller than she expected. His narrow bed was folded down from the wall on a chain and spanned the width of his cell. The captain reached for the chain, but Arya ducked under his arms and climbed onto the knee-high bunk.

Arya hopped off the other end of the bed and rummaged through some folded clothes. _Doesn't Jon have any good clothes?_ Frustrated, she turned to see that the guard captain had folded up the bed.

"My lady," he said, tapping his foot.

There on the ground, she saw a leather-on-wood trunk with iron studded edges.

She opened it and picked up a pair of breeches. "Do these look grey?" In the dim room, she wasn't sure. "Or this?"

He chuckled at her and took the breeches and leather jerkin. The captain held them up to the small, round window. "Dark greys, my little lady. Nearly black."

"Thanks then. What else? Boys wear tunics under jerkins, right?"

He handed her the first two articles, and she rolled them into a ball.

"Shirt?" he asked.

"Shirt," Arya confirmed, and the captain handed one to her.

"Boot stockings?"

"Boot stockings."

"Smallclothes?" he asked with an arched brow.

"Smallclothes," she groaned.

* * *

Four women were at work in the sewing room. Jon's cloak was ready and folded. Mylessa took Arya's bundle. She picked up a cloth badge from on top of the black cloak and stitched it onto Jon's jerkin. She quickly arranged everything into a pile and tied a string around it. When Arya tried to open the folds and peek at the badge, Mylessa gave her a soft push out the door and said, "Off you go, m'lady."

She ran across a courtyard and cut through the main hall. Arya wondered if she was going to get Jon in trouble on his special knighting-day by taking so long. Just then, someone caught her by the arm.

"Robb, let me go! I've had enough of stupid boys in my way this morning."

He released her and looked like he was going to ask a myriad of questions, but Arya stopped him. "I need your pin!"

"What?"

"Robb, your pin! The pin. . . the silver wolf clasp keeping your cloak from pooling on the ground - I need it!" Arya demanded.

"Then how will I continue to keep _my_ cloak from _pooling on the ground_?"

"String?" Arya offered, holding up her bundle.

Robb frowned at her.

"But, I _need _it," she repeated, then reached a hand up to yank it off herself.

Robb relented. "Fine, _my lady_. I'll find something else."

* * *

Arya reached Jon breathless. She surprised herself by running straight to the right spot. That she could have gotten lost in the small, but unfamiliar godswood didn't occur to her until she'd already found Jon.

He was drying off his face and hair, while Nymeria and Ghost stood side-by-side in the brook, trying to bite the running water.

She handed him the bundle.

He looked at the clasp on top and questioned, "A silver wolf?"

"From Robb."

"You mean a gift?"

"Ha! Yes. You keep it." Arya grinned.

Jon reached out and mussed her hair. "I'll meet you at the entrance to the godswood after I've dressed."

* * *

The small party followed the septon to a plot of grass in the godswood. A nursemaid saw them and took a boy no older than Rickon in hand. The sun brightened the airy forest. A flock of a dozen crows took flight off the grass and landed in a tree overlooking the clearing.

The septon spoke, but Arya paid him no mind. The witnesses stood in a small crescent, facing deeper into the godswood. Jon and Ser Brynden faced the crowd, one pace behind the septon. _Sansa would love this._ With the flowering trees in the distance, the sun shining, and the birds watching from above, Arya thought the setting was better suited for a wedding than a warrior's rite of passage.

Arya looked at the faces around her. Everyone stood, except for Uncle Edmure, who had a chair brought for him. She was surprised, and a bit angry on Jon's behalf, that more people were not with them. She'd assumed that the entire castle would be in attendance. The next Lord of the Riverlands was saved by Jon, but she counted only five-and-ten faces paying him this honor. Beyond the three Starks and Edmure Tully, Arya noticed some finely dressed men with swords. _Probably knights,_ she thought. Four sewing women looked to be japing with their glances to each other. The others looked like they were each a fighting man, or boy, of some lesser status.

Arya Stark turned her glance back upon the septon, but still ignored what he was saying. The man was pot-bellied and mostly bald. What hair he had was brown and oily. It curved around the back of his head, except for a thin tuft on top, which he patted down toward his brow. All the while, he spoke in an irritating accent. _Father's gods don't need annoying septons and stupid septas or statues. They don't even need names. You can just feel something. . . hidden and powerful, when you look at a weirwood's spooky eyes._ Arya remembered how Bran was too scared to follow her to the heart tree for years. She doubted that anyone thought this fat septon powerful or scary.

Jon stepped to the septon's side and knelt. The fat man reached down and dabbed something on Jon's forehead, said something in a low voice, and then retreated to join the crowd.

Arya heard several whispers behind her. "What's he doing in _those _clothes? Where is the boy's humble roughspun? Who does he think he is?"

She let out an exasperated sigh.

The Blackfish walked forward and held the blade of his sword just above Jon's head.

"In the Mother's name do to swear to protect the weak?" he asked.

"I swear," promised Jon.

Then, Uncle Brynden tapped Jon on each shoulder and made him swear by each of the Seven. When he was finished, he solemnly announced, "Arise Ser Jon of House Whitewolf."

Jon threw back his black cloak, revealing a shield-shaped badge of a white direwolf racing across a black field. It made Arya imagine Ghost full grown and running through the dark of night.

"_Whitewolf,"_ she whispered, feeling out the sound of it. _Better than 'Snow'._

Hoots and cheers sounded out. Small audience or not, Jon's smile stretched as far as it could across his face. Arya Stark shouted at her brother. Robb whistled and when he began to clap, all three leads slipped from his fingers. Grey Wind, Nymeria, and Ghost ran to Jon. The grey pups barked and jumped excitedly; Ghost pushed his head against Jon's leg until he bent and reached his fingers into the pale white fur.

Arya smiled, thinking of Jon's new name. "I like it!" Giddy, she rubbed her hands together and said to Robb, "Sounds like he's a_ sellsword."_

"No, Arya, like he's a knight."


	11. Jon - A Proposal

"So, you've been back for days. You'll be leaving to live in your own keep soon, and you're not going to see _her?"_ Arya asked with a smirk.

Over the past two years, Arya Stark had grown bolder, and Jon couldn't have been more proud of her. The girl's precociousness was beginning to change into stubborn wit.

Jon shrugged at her question, attempting to conceal his worry.

"You should write to her yourself," his sister suggested. "You'll be five-and-ten on your next name day. She already turned four-and-ten. You're both grown! And, you should do something to impress her."

He continued to look off the Great Keep's covered bridge. The rain rattled on the roof above them. With the yard empty, Jon couldn't pretend that his attention was elsewhere.

"Are you afraid? Or. . . are you not fond of her anymore?"

"What? Perhaps a bit - wait, I still think of her. 'A bit' was my answer to the first part," he said, stumbling over his own thoughts. "But, _impress_ her? As in, some gesture Sansa would like?"

"Pfft! No. She isn't anything like Sansa. You know she isn't. Just think about what would impress you, if only you were a girl."

Jon arched his eyebrows at her.

"If that doesn't help," she answered, "think about what _I_ would like if I were a woman grown."

Jon laughed. "Arya, you really are utterly different from her. Besides, I know she is. . . _fond _of me already."

The girl gave him a shove in reply.

"What?" He grinned. "It is true, isn't it?"

Arya rolled her eyes. "Mayhaps so, _Robb!_" she said, mocking her quiet brother's presumptiveness.

"It is not her that I need impress," explained Jon, "but Lord Hornwood."

Arya clutched her chin and leaned her elbow on the railing. Lost in thought for a moment, she let her head lean too far over the side and the downpour soaked her hair.

Jon laughed at her and said, "Let's get you inside."

* * *

Jon asked Mikken for his help with two favors. Against a bare wall inside the smithy, they drew with charred sticks until both agreed. Jon even assisted with blunt hammering, though he left all of the shaping and delicate work to the master armourer.

He paid a tanner in Wintertown to stitch two sheathes to his custom measures. The first was short and uncommonly thin. The other needed to be five feet long with a fur-lined mouth that spread a foot and half wide.

When Mikken was finished, Jon sent a raven to Lord Halys Hornwood and set out to leave. Lord Eddard ordered six guards to accompany Jon to Castle Hornwood. As he was poised to depart, his wolf eagerly followed him to the stables. Ghost and the other direwolves were growing exceptionally quickly. Though still less than two months old, they already made the dogs in Farlen's kennels fearful. Jon decided that Ghost was big enough to run alongside him on the ride.

They traveled south along the Kingsroad, before turning southeast. Jon, his wolf, and the others ferried across the White Knife and rode through the Sheepshead Hills. Unfamiliar with the terrain, they circled around the Hornwood forest, rather than chance a ride through it.

The party made camp for one last night, knowing they would reach the castle on the following day. Jon lay half curled on his side within his small, canvas shelter. Ghost meandered between the other tents, as he had throughout the journey. The wolf loved the new scents and sounds, especially at night. Late after Jon fell asleep each night, Ghost would find his way to the tent and be by Jon's side when he awoke.

On that final night, Jon was unsure of how long he'd slept when he woke with a start. Drowsy, he felt as if he could smell unfamiliar animals nearby. Jon rubbed his eyes and watched his wolf turned about strangely.

"What is wrong with you?" he asked. "No one's out there. Calm yourself, and sleep." Memories of camping in the Riverlands wormed their way into Jon's mind.

His wolf did not relent.

Jon buckled on his sword belt and followed the direwolf into the night.

The moon lit their way into the wood. Jon drew his longsword and followed tentatively. He stopped for a moment and looked back at the small camp. He wanted to tell the other men to come with him, but did not. _I am a knight._

As Ghost led him deeper into the wood, the dawn began to lighten the sky. Just then, he heard the faintest sound of movement in the distance. He shut his eyes and focused on the rustle. The noise grew clear and whatever scent he'd smelled just after waking, returned to him. Together, Jon and his little wolf crept after the sound.

Between the oaks and pine, Jon glimpsed what Ghost wished to follow.

A towering bull moose turned his head away from the tree trunk he'd been mauling and looked at the boy and his direwolf with one eye. Ghost silently bared his teeth. The brown-coated beast stood taller than Jon at its shoulder and looked to weigh sixty stone. Its leaf-shaped antlers spanned five feet wide. Impressive as they were, Jon could see blood trickling from where they connected to the animal's head.

The moose lowered his antlers and stomped the ground with one hoof. Jon did not dare move.

He held back a smile at the absurdity.

"You must be mad, wolf," he whispered in reprimand. "With or without me, you can't hope to bring him down." A bull moose was dangerous prey even for a pack of wolves. Neither Jon nor his young direwolf could hope to outrun or withstand its charge. "Ghost. . . down. Heel," he urged.

Ghost did as he was told and dipped his head, but still showed his teeth. Jon took a deep breath and closed his eyes for but a moment. He could feel a change in his senses. His smell was strong again, but his hearing was even sharper than it had been. . . His head reeled with an unfamiliar sting.

Jon opened his eyes and sheathed his sword. He didn't understand how, but he was certain that the moose wouldn't charge.

He held both of his hands in front of himself and slowly stepped forward. "Ghost –wait. Stay," he hushed.

Speaking gently, he said, "You are big fellow, aren't you? We'll not harm you."

The moose eyed him suspiciously, but did not attack or flee. When Jon was only a pace away, he bowed his head and extended his hand. After a long moment, the bull moose idled ahead and sniffed his glove. Jon slid his hand up the length of the moose's snout and then back down, beneath his chin. He stepped under the antlers, running his hand slowly along the creature's neck.

_I know what you need, and I'll help if I can._

He slowly gripped the base of each horn. The beast backed up, but Jon couldn't sustain his footing and slid through the underbrush.

Jon Snow wrapped one arm around the tree and held the other out for the bull moose. "Once more," he whispered. The creature seemed to grasp that he was trying to help. The young knight held tight to one of the prongs with his free hand. When the animal pulled away, the antler broke free.

_It's so heavy,_ he thought. Man and beast prepared to repeat the task, and soon the other horn came loose.

The moose trumpeted a guttural call, then bounded off into the wood.

Ser Jon hoisted the fifty pounds of horn onto his shoulders. He glanced over at Ghost. "And you thought to try and eat it."

* * *

When Jon neared the camp, morning was well upon them, and he could hear the men calling out to him. He cleared the edge of the forest, a short walk from the camp. Two of the guards looked his way and drew their swords.

"Oh," said one of them, "it's you."

"Afraid we lost Lord Stark's boy, we were," said the other.

The guardsman Jon's father put in charge of this journey paced over to them. When he got close, he uttered, "Jon, by the gods, what do you 'ave there?"

"A set of moose antlers, Harwin."

"But. . . how did you?"

Jon grinned back. "I'll tell you on the way."

The others packed away their tents and mounted their horses. Harwin held the lead of Jon's mare and offered to take the horns from him, but he just shook his head. "Don't worry, I can do it."

* * *

The sun was setting when the party reached Castle Hornwood. The ancient trees surrounding it cast shadows on the dull, brown stone of its walls. The castle was far smaller than Winterfell, but nearly as old. The stories spoke of the First Men erecting a wooden bailey on that very spot while they still warred with the Children of the Forest. Once the Men and the Children agreed to the Pact, it served as an outpost to guard the villages further down the Broken Branch. The wary men didn't come to trust their new allies until many years later. Sometime after, wood was replaced with stone. Old Nan used to say that the_ Children_ living in Hornwood Forest would come to the castle every year during the Harvest Festival. In some of her stories, they traded tools imbued with their magic in return for food. In others, the Children of the Forest traded for unwanted infants.

Harwin announced Jon and their party to the archers on the wall, one left to find Lord Hornwood while the others raised the gate.

"I still can't believe I must call you a bloody _ser_," japed Harwin.

Word of their arrival must have spread quickly, because Lord Halys' entire household was standing in the courtyard, watching them enter. Jon stopped at the gateway and let the other men enter first. He sat atop his black mare, wearing his black cloak and dark mail with his longsword on his hip and the pommel of a second sword showing over his shoulder. He held the pair of antlers steady in his lap with his left hand. Jon imagined and hoped that he was looking every bit a knight to the sets of hazel, Hornwood eyes. He dismounted as gracefully as he could.

"My lords," he said to Lord Hornwood and his son, Daryn. He gave them a low bow and the guards from Winterfell did likewise. "My ladies," Jon offered to Lady Donella Hornwood and Lydrea. He struggled to shift both horns into the grip of one hand, so he could bow to Lydrea and kiss her aunt's hand.

Jon received a skeptical look from Lady Donella, and Lydrea covered a chuckle. Daryn wore an amused grin, and Lord Halys stepped forward.

"Ser Jon, men of Winterfell," called out the jovial lord, "the courtesy of Castle Hornwood is yours. I welcome you to my home and hearth."

"My lord," replied Jon, "I thank you on behalf of each of us. May I also offer you these gifts."

"Gifts to our _friendship_, no doubt," said Lord Hornwood wryly.

Jon nodded and held out the horns. Lord Halys accepted one of them. He turned it over for his inspection. "Impressive, most impressive." He then passed it to his son. Harwin came up to Jon and took the other antler, showing it to Lady Donella.

"My lord, there is also this," Jon said. He unslung the sword across his back and presented it with both hands. Halys unsheathed it and a smooth ring could be heard.

"Gods, Jon!" exclaimed Daryn.

Lord Hornwood raised the greatsword with both hands. The blade was a matte grey with a hilt of carved bone and brown leather. A craggy, round pommel secured the hilt. The crossguard, however, was an achievement of Mikken's all on its own. In place of a flat bar, a set of glossed steel antlers sprung from both sides of the blade.

"Fine gifts, ser," Lord Halys declared, led them all into his hall.

* * *

After a generous meal of Northern fare, Lydrea offered Jon a tour of the castle. As he stood, Lady Donella gave him a nod; Daryn whispered something to his father and both laughed heartily.

Lydrea Hornwood clutched Jon's arm and guided him out of the hall and to the Lord's Keep. She told him about the layout of the castle and asked him about his time in Riverrun and his holdfast in the Wolfswood.

After they entered the keep, Lydrea took Jon by the hand and led him up the stairs. Their footsteps echoed off the high-set ceiling. The set of stairs climbed steep and straight for the first four stories, without a switchback or spiral. Jon's boots fit neatly into the footprints worn in the dark, brown stone over the centuries. Overhead, he could see a huge weirwood beam bracing against the walls lengthwise. It was supported in the middle by a stone arch spanning the narrow width of the stairs. Jon wondered if that weirwood had a face before it was cut down to make the support. Weirwood never rotted, so Jon couldn't tell how long ago it was first placed, high above the stairs.

Lydrea abruptly dropped his arm and bounded back down the stairs, two at a time. Jon put a hand on the wall to steady himself and looked down the steep drop to the landing.

She scooped up his white direwolf, who was confused for a moment, then twisted his head to lick her chin.

Carrying Ghost, Lydrea saw Jon holding onto the wall for balance. She giggled at him and assured, "It's not so precarious as it looks, ser."

At the top, he followed Lydrea down a hallway, through two rooms, up a second staircase, through a smaller hallway, and into a windowless storage closet at one corner of the square keep. She guided him through the pitch-dark room and placed his hand onto the wooden rung of a ladder. With Ghost under one arm, she carefully climbed first.

He followed her up.

The curved tops of two colored windows from the floor below illuminated the far end of the loft. Jon stood up and immediately bumped the top of his head on the low rafters.

"Sorry," Lydrea said, cringing. "I should have warned you."

She seated herself on a blanket already laid out before the windows and bid Jon to do the same. Ghost curled into her lap and contently allowed Lydrea to pet his fur.

Dust fell like snowflakes in the streaks of light. When Jon sat down, they swirled away.

"Is this one of the places you like to come to?" he asked.

"Yes, and I don't think anyone knows of it, save for me. And now you."

Jon felt honored by the privilege, and anxious as well. She was looking straight into his eyes. The light caught her hair and glimmered in the strands. "My lady, thanks for bringing me here."

"Of course. And, I am grateful for your visit. Unless, Jon, you intend for more than a _visit_."

He chuckled and felt both relieved and slightly embarrassed that she openly hinted at what he'd been too scared to mention thus far. He tugged at the badge on his jerkin and answered, "I did this for you, in truth. For myself as well, but I doubt that I would've attempted any of it without your urging." He thought to explain his vagaries, but could see in her eyes that she understood.

He cleared his throat and said, "I would offer you what I have –no, _all_ that I have. Perhaps your uncle could find a better match, but. . ."

Her only answer was a kiss.

Lydrea's lips were soft and sweet. Jon thought to wrap his arms around her, but he sat too far away and thus kept them at his sides.

He was thrilled by this particular answer. Jon wished to leave their conversation at that, but felt compelled to ask, "But. . . knighted or not, why would you choose me? I'm sure your uncle could find a better match."

"And what would make another match better, Jon? Who his parents are? I think you understand me better than another match would. You have a tender kindness to you. And. . ." She looked away. "You are quite handsome."

Jon had never heard such words from a woman before. He was delighted and embarrassed.

"You are too," he whispered. "Pretty, though. Rather than handsome."

She shifted in place and smiled at the ground.

"Besides," she added in a teasing tone. "If not you, then I'll probably be wed to one of Lord Manderly's nephews or even grandsons. If they take after him, I'm like to suffocate on my wedding night."

Jon laughed and leaned close for another kiss.

* * *

Jon peered into Lord Halys's solar. Though the door had been open when he approached, he refrained from entering without the lord's leave. "My lord? I beg pardon, may I have a word?"

"Ser Jon, by all means, enter."

Daryn Hornwood gave his father a grin before leaving with the other man who'd been attending the lord. Jon took the chair he was offered, by the hearth.

They exchanged pleasantries, and Halys remarked that his new blade was a fine bit of steel.

"Enough of all that, lad," he ordered. "Out with it."

Jon just stared at him.

"You must needs to make the request before you can hear a lord's answer."

"My lord, I mean to say that. . . I seek your niece's, - Lydrea's. . . her hand, my lord."

"Her hand?! That's grotesque!" Lord Hornwood bellowed. "What would you have me do? Cut it from her arm with my new sword?"

"My lord, no! You mistake my meaning! I -" Jon was interrupted by the man's laughter.

"Pour yourself a horn of ale," he said, "and top mine to the brim. Did you suppose that I've been unaware of the goings on in my own home? A dozen or more letters from that sister of yours did not escape my notice, nor did my niece's mood on the days after the arrival of each one. My first thought was that she was receiving charms from your brother, until Daryn confessed to seeing _you_ with my Drea, strolling about Winterfell."

Jon took a long pull of the thick, honeyed brew. He wondered if he should promise to safeguard Lydrea or make some other oath.

"You need not look so harried, lad," Halys said. "My niece has felt enough hardship for a girl her age." His tone grew melancholic. "Her mother was a kind woman, though I did not know her well. My brother was stern and his mind always fixed on honor, even as a boy. Has she told you the story of his death?"

Jon shook his head.

"I sent him to a village on our lands, in my stead. We'd gotten word of three rapers. The story we'd heard would turn your stomach inside out. These men were cruel even among other such criminals. Rodnel went on _my_ orders, not to track them, but to listen to the smallfolk. He never returned."

Lord Hornwood paused to refill his cup and to top off Jon's. "Roose Bolton," he hissed, "claimed weeks later to have found the men. Even brought me three heads. Beaten so bloody, they were, that I couldn't hope to ask any in the village to name these the same three.

"So I cared for Rodnel's girl as if she were mine own. What else was I to do? Lay siege to the Dreadfort? None could disprove Bolton's claim of justice."

Jon saw a man before him who looked a decade older than the affable Lord of Hornwood.

"M'lord?" someone called while cracking the door.

"Come in, maester."

The man who stepped inside was the youngest maester Jon had ever seen. He was no more than five-and-twenty. In place of a maester's robes, he wore breeches and a loose tunic of rough-spun grey wool. He wore three maester's links around his neck and the rest of his chain was made of plain, brass ringlets. When he saw Lord Hornwood's face, the young maester assured his lord that the matter would keep until the morning and left.

"Is that the first you've seen of our wizen old maester?" asked Lord Halys, his face conforming to its well-worn wrinkles as he resumed his usual smile. "Truth be told, the title is merely a courtesy. He's ne'er even set foot in Oldtown," he said with a laugh. "Oh, we have a true maester as well: a learned man, one who follows commands because he is sworn to do so. Yet, he doesn't understand me, nor most anyone in my castle. He's vague about where he was born, but like as not it was somewhere in the Reach. The old ways of the North are as foreign to him as the practices of the Summer Isles.

"Years ago, an acolyte who had no intention of remaining celibate happened upon my father's castle; I doubt it was the first place he offered his services. My father made use of him and the man took a common girl for a wife. He taught his son, whom you just saw, all he'd learned. The son serves well enough, tending the ravens and mild sicknesses. But more importantly, he was born in this castle and the North is the only home he's ever known. As such, I trust him as I would my own kin. Remember Jon, no matter what he may tell you, a man in grey robes is still a man."

Lord Halys cleared his throat, "But to the matter at _hand_, think on why I have not arranged a betrothal for my niece. Why, the Karstark girl who will marry Daryn is younger by, mayhaps, two years. The letters you exchanged gave me pause, but that day some weeks ago settled the matter in my view. She received a letter one morning and cried for the first time since she was small, cried for hours. When I discovered the reason, and soon after that you had in fact survived, I knew to expect you'd come calling. I have questions and I will have the truth from you."

Jon sat at attention.

"Where will you live?" he asked. "Here? Winterfell?"

Jon told him of his keep in the Wolfswood.

"Thinking on my young maester, you would do well to ask Lord Stark's old _grey robes_ write to some friend of his in the Citadel asking after some acolyte, like the one who found my father," he suggested. "I doubt they'll send a newly landed knight a fully sworn maester.

"Next, how in the bloody hells did you manage to arrive with that rack of antlers? Any beast big enough to wielded those could have gutted you with less effort than you expend wiping your arse!"

"I don't rightly know, my lord," he answered with a smile. "My wolf led me to it. I think he meant to eat it."

Lord Hornwood's laugh thundered in Jon's ears.

"That wee little thing?!"

"Yes, my lord." Jon chuckled. "Just him and me. But when I approached, the bull moose seemed almost. . . _eager_ for me to help."

Halys shrugged. "They shed their horns before winter, the largest bulls earlier than the others. Sure as a white raven from the Citadel, what you saw means that summer is all but over."

"And for the last," he began. "What do I call you? I've heard the men style you, 'The Whitewolf', 'Ser Jon Whitewolf', or also 'of Whitewolf'. Which is it?"

Jon shook his head, grinning. "I am not certain, my lord. The name, I like. It seems fitting in light of my direwolf and in homage to the Blackfish of Riverrun and the Starks too. _The Whitewolf_ or _Jon Whitewolf_, neither displeases me. I intend to pass it on as the name of a knightly House for my sons. That is of bigger importance to me than the rest."

"Well, Ser Jon the Whitewolf of House Whitewolf," Lord Halys declared. He reached across the hearth and clasped Jon by the back of his neck. "You may tell your father, and my niece, that I have consented."


End file.
